


Wherever You Are

by Kaelas, yamikuronue



Series: Real Hotheads of Kirkwall [4]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: ACAB, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Templars (Dragon Age), Being an Amell is suffering, Beth is thirsty, Bisexuality, Boarding School, Bullying, Canon Trans Character, Catholic School, Cheerleaders, Drinking, Drugs, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gang Rape, M/M, Misgendering, Multi, Orphans, Rape, References to Drugs, Religion, Teenagers, Trans, Trans Carver Hawke, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Underage Drinking, Underage Rape/Non-con, Underage Sex, cheerleaders written by two guys sorry, corrective rape, diet culture, high school shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 104,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27563515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaelas/pseuds/Kaelas, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamikuronue/pseuds/yamikuronue
Summary: It's Carver Hawke Amell's turn to be in the spotlight, as we follow the younger set of Hawke twins through their high school adventures. Warning: this isn't going to be nice to the poor trans boy.
Relationships: Bethany Hawke/Carver Hawke, Bethany Hawke/OC, Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Raleigh Samson/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Real Hotheads of Kirkwall [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1316675
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CW for story: Transphobia. This is going to be a rough one for trans folks, you might want to skip it. We don't pull our punches, and it explicitly includes misgendering, trans-centric bullying, and corrective rape. But we promise he'll be okay in the long run.
> 
> CW for chapter 1: misgendering, strip clubs, sex, cops, drugs, alcohol, high school boys are assholes

_Why don't you let yourself just be someplace different_

_o-o-oh_

_Why don't you let yourself just be whoever you are_

Home sweet home; and with it, Secret Birthday. Carver Firethorn Hawke Amell and his twin sister, Bethany Willow Hawke Amell, never liked their birthday. This year is no exception: at what was meant to be their party, they were mostly ignored in favor of The Major's grandstanding first with him forming political and business connections, then having a massive heart attack. He was recovering now, but they had to return to school, whether they liked it or not.

Carver and Beth have a tradition: every year, the first night they're back at school, they celebrate Secret Birthday. It had begun before Carver was allowed to be Carver on his birthday, when he'd been forced to be Carol instead; he deserved a cake with his real name on it, Beth had insisted, and so she'd arranged for one, piping the name on herself to make extra sure it's the right one.

The dorms are segregated by sex, meaning that in high school Carver has been separated from Beth, but they still get together at midnight, meeting up in the gym's storage shed to have cake and presents, just them. Carver is a little late, having overslept; he's been stressed, tired, and a little ill, but he's game anyway. _I can breathe here at school_ , he reminds himself as he creeps down to the shed. Nobody at home would recognize school-Carver, not once he gets settled. His real self, with his real friends, his real family— specifically, just Beth— and his real hobbies. _I don't have to be afraid here._

Bethany-the-student might have to hide large sections of herself and lie about others just the same as Bethany-the-dutiful-daughter, but at least the student can have a hell of a lot more fun. So while she's not that much more honest about her true self than Carver is, returning to school is both a thrill and a release. After all, both places have her twin, but she has far more friends at school. Plus, her parents aren't 'not' getting divorced in front of her here. So as she looks over the room, decked out in the same decorations that she managed to sneak off and get from a cheap corner store for the second Secret Birthday so many years ago, she's feeling pretty damn good.

 _And not thinking about anything that happened during break. Nope. Nothing about Templar, about parents, about kidnappings, bombs or any of that. Not a single thing. Except for the fact that I'm thinking about it right now. Drat. Where is he?_ Frowning a little, she moves towards the door to peek out just as he opens it. "Maker's taint, Carver! You scared the piss out of me."

"Sorry," he says, with a broad grin. "Happy birthday, ma'win." He doesn't bother groveling, he isn't quiet, he doesn't lower his eyes to the ground; instead he smiles, teases, jokes.

Forgiving him instantly and easily, Beth grins at him. "Happy birthday, ma'win," she echoes, stepping closer. She leans up to kiss him but hesitates, then goes for just a hug instead in a rather out of character move.

Carver pulls back, frowning a little. "Beth? Are you alright?"

"Yes?" Beth offers. "Why?"

"You're a little..." _Distant_. "Off today."

Beth winces, looking down. "Sorry, I just... remembered something Garrett mentioned. On the boat? Not about—" She coughs, not willing to say it, even if they're almost completely certain they're alone. "About us."

"About... us?" Carver blinks, worry knotting his stomach. "What about?"

"He— he pointed out that, given our ages, we should be more careful about, umm, physical contact?" Beth winces, looking awkward.

Carver hesitates. "Oh," he says, quietly. "Sorry." He takes half a step back, hands slipping into his pockets.

Scowling, Beth steps towards him rapidly to pull him back into a hug. "More careful, not too careful," she says fiercely. "You're the most important thing in my life, ma'win. I'm not giving you up."

He clings to her tightly, resting his head on her shoulder, relieved. "Good," he says, mulishly. "I don't want us to change. Not ever. I don't ever want us to have to hide from each other."

Beth nods into his shoulder, eyes closing as the feel of her other half soothes her upset. "Just need to pay more attention," she mumbles. "And shower more often or something, you big jock."

"It's the T, I can't help it," he mumbles. "You smell nice, all the time. Like vanilla."

"My body wash," Beth says, flushing a little. _I wish a hot chick would agree with you_. "Probably shouldn't sit in your lap anymore either." A pause. "Also, umm, did you know that— how would you describe my massages? And be completely honest, full answer."

"They're relaxing. And um..." He hesitates, a faint blush coming to his cheeks.

Beth's eyes widen. "Seriously?" she squawks. "Why didn't you ever say they were sexy?!"

"I didn't want to make you feel bad," he mumbles, cheeks reddening further.

"I massage _everyone_ ," Beth hisses. "Tiny elven gods, Carver, I've give _Samson_ a bare back rub." _I don't understand why you're friends with him half the time. Pushy asshole, he tries to get into my panties nearly every party. And he's not just having fun, like Zevran or Dennis. He's pushy about it. Creep._

"It's not... always," he admits, hunching his shoulders a little. "Just... sometimes. When you're really into it and relaxed." _When you use magic._

Beth thumps her head a few times against his shoulder. "Which probably means most every time for other people. Alright. Well. Now I know," she mutters. Then another thought occurs to her and she perks up. "Wait, Shan _loves_ my massages."

"Great," her twin mutters. _That Shan... I don't see why they're friends. She's so stuck-up, her and her friends._

"Yes great," Beth says with a grin. "I think she might be, you know. Like me." She licks her lips unthinkingly. "I should offer her a massage tomorrow night."

"Or, just a thought, anyone else?" he offers.

Bethany blinks. "Huh?"

"Just, you know... you can do better," he suggests. _Better than the head cheerleader, the most popular girl in school? She won't buy that._

Beth coos a little, kissing his cheek. "I love you too, Carver. But if we only approve of the other dating someone we think worthy of the other, neither of us will ever get laid. A date." She smiles at him gamely.

 _We could. If we—_ He buries the thought, refuses to admit he's had it. "I guess," he says instead. "But let's not talk about that. It's Secret Birthday. Let's have cake already."

"Cake is good," she declares, leaning up to kiss his cheek. "Ick. Shave," she orders him, pleased at having to do so. Humming, she bustles over to the cake. "Hopefully this came out right; I made the batter back home, then baked it here. Cooking Stack Exchange said it would be fine but..." She shrugs.

"I'm sure it'll be perfect." _Just like you._

* * *

The first few days back at class were never anything much to worry about; they had an assembly half a day on Thursday, thus, Friday was the only full day of classes, most of which were spent going over the syllabus and handing out textbooks. So it is Friday night that the lads go out to use up Uncle Gamlen's birthday gift to Carver: a prepaid experience at the nearby strip club, complete with VIP back room experience and $200 in fives to spend on girls in the front room.

Carver's friends mostly consist of the lads on the soccer team: Nick, Jules, Tony, and Steve. Tonight, however, he was bringing along Steve and Steve's Templar-in-training friends, boys Carver wants to be better friends with— and boys who call Steve by his last name, Carroll, which makes Carver twitch every time.

Steve's friends are Alistair Theirin, Raleigh Samson, and Cullen Rutherford: all fine, upstanding lads of good breeding, the sort that don't have to settle for sports to prove their physical fitness. Carver had begged to be allowed to try out for Templar training, but his father had refused, and so he'd struggled to make friends with the lads who had made the cut. _I would have been just as good,_ Carver tells himself again. _Just as good as any of them._

The club isn't checking IDs, meaning they can grab a round of beers on Cullen as they settle in to watch the show. Alistair is nervous, something that apparently happens a lot given how Samson and Carroll treat him; Cullen was gung-ho about it, eager to see the ladies. "We're going to be men tonight, boys," he keeps insisting, in a way that reminds Carver far too much of his uncle Gamlen to be comfortable.

"Well, most of us might," Samson says with a bark of laughter. "Ally-boy here still has to wait on his balls to drop before he can even think of dipping his wick." Steven joins in the laughter, snickering as he makes a crude gesture.

"Aw, leave off," says Carver, shaking his head. "If he wants to be a child he can. Let's not waste our evening talking about _Alistair_."

"Hey!" Alistair scowls at his friend, though due to his amicable nature and soft features, it's much the same as being glared by a mabari puppy. "I'm older than anyone but Cullen here!"

"Only because you got held back," jokes Cullen.

"I wasn't held back," Alistair protests. "I started late."

"You did two years of preschool," Samson say, smirking. "That means you repeated a year. Sorry, that's just how it works."

 _Who the fuck even cares?_ wonders Carver. "Hey, I think the show's starting. Unless you fags would rather keep bitching about Alistair?"

There's a few more zings and a mostly good natured curse from Steve at Carver's taunt but they all quiet down. Well, for a few minutes. It's not long before Samson scoffs softly. "Elf strippers? Fuck, might as well be fags. No tits, no ass, no point."

"Hole's a hole," Steve disagrees. "Elf cunt is just as soft and wet as any other. And tighter too."

 _She's so graceful and delicate. I miss dance._ Carver knows better than to express any of the things going on in his head, so he scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Not her I bet. She's probably loose as all hell. Whores, you know."

"Mouths don't get loose," Steve muses. "Probably safer anyway. Diseases and shit."

"That's what healers are for," Samson says dismissively. "Besides, this place is high town, they screen for that sort of thing. I bet— fuck, Ally-boy, are you serious?" The blond jerks his head up from where he'd been staring at the ground. "It's a strip club! You're _supposed_ to stare!"

"Wow, what a fag," says Cullen, mercilessly.

Carver stays quiet, pretending to be fixed on the stripper. _I can't keep protecting him... Why do I even care, anyway?_

"It just feels— impolite," Alistair mutters. "We're training to be Templar, we should be above such base urges and thoughts."

Samson rubs his chin. "Eh, probably," he allows. "But I figure that just means we should sow all our oats now. Maybe in that blonde there with the fucking huge tits," he adds, pointing at one of the new strippers. "Maker's breath, look at those things." Smirking, he waves a wad of bills to try and coax her over.

Carver whistles. "Damn, I hope that's Trixie Wonderfun."

"Who?" Steve asks, glancing at Carver.

Carver grins. "Oh, didn't I tell you? I have a back-room pass. Birthday present."

"The fuck you say!" Samson demands, focus arrowing in on Carver briefly. "You even sure what you'll do if—" He breaks off as the blonde gets to the edge of the stage in front of him and starts to sway. Shaking his head, Steve stands up. "Hitting the bar."

"Grab me another beer? It's my birthday," Carver jokes.

"'course," Steve replies, giving a finger gun salute as he heads off. Samson rises to his feet to tuck a couple of bills into the strippers thong, making sure to grope her as he does so.

 _They usually don't want you to do that_ , notes Carver, but again, he says nothing, smirking slightly as he watches. _Whatever. I'm hanging out with the cool guys._

Samson's behavior is matched by Steve's, though Cullen and Carver are tamer. Alistair is almost meek in comparison, though he does eventually give in and start watching the dancers openly. Blushes the whole time, granted, but he watches. A few drinks in, Steve slaps the ass of one of the strippers walking by and one of the bouncers comes over. But a name drop and a flexing of Templar skills brushes the incident under the rug. Carver is the only one of the boys that notices the behavior of the staff shifting somewhat afterwards, with some of the workers avoiding their group and others seeking them out. It certainly doesn't prevent Samson and Cullen from getting lap dances.

A half hour in, after a trio of identical redheads finish a set, Carver feels a hand slide down into his shirt to caress his chest. "Hey there, handsome. You the birthday boy?" A lock of glossy black hair dangles down in the corner of his eye and her honeyed-whiskey voice caresses his ear.

"I am," he croaks, feeling himself grow even more aroused. _Wow, she's really something!_

Leaning further around, Carver finally gets a look at who must be Trixie. She has gorgeous eyes, wide and slightly slanted, with purple irises framed by stark black hair streaked with brilliant silver white. She smiles at him, cherry red lips looking glossy and full. Slipping around the chair, she drapes herself into his lap with one arm hooked around his neck. She's not as 'blessed' as the blonde earlier, but she's taller and more toned, her tanned skin covered by a gauzy blue robe belted at the waist. The neckline is loose enough that Carver can see the swell of her breasts behind the sea foam green lace teddy she has on underneath it. "Well I'm Trixie, your present for today. Want to head to the back and... unwrap me?"

"Do I," he manages, his parts aching with yearning. _Holy shit, she's gorgeous! Yes, please!_

"We can come too, right?" asks Cullen, greedily. "Come watch?"

Trixie leans her head back to laugh, exposing the line of her throat and giving Carver an even better look down her robe. "Watching, I'm afraid, would be extra. And I don't do groups. You boys want to share, you should ask for Missy Waters at the bar. She loves herself a full party." She offers a wink. "And she loves herself some Templar too, might swing a discount if you're willing to play it up some."

"We'll do that," says Cullen, with an enthusiastic nod.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, my turn now," says Carver, eagerly.

Carver follows Trixie through the club toward the bar, where the music is louder; a thumping bass, giving the girl on stage a lot to work with as she works the pole.

"Got a VIP, gimmie a room," shouts Trixie, over the bar. Carver leans against it, watching as Cullen and some girl make their way toward the bar as well. _Is that how this works? I guess they took her up on her offer._

The bartender throws a key to Trixie, and she tugs Carver away from the bar, toward the back. _This isn't sexy_ , he has time to think, before she pauses to trace her finger along his cheek, his chin. _Okay, this part is a little sexy._

"What are you up for, tiger?" she asks, unlocking the room. "It's your birthday, after all."

"I— I want— I want you," he manages, stammering a bit. _It's so easy to fall back into being quiet_ , he notes, absently, staring at Trixie's chest. _So easy to drop the act. I have to pay better attention. I have to—_

Trixie tugs him inside, untying her robe to give him a good look at the great body underneath. _Oh. That's good. Yeah,_ he thinks, his loins pulsing with need.

"How about I use my mouth?" she whispers, her voice hot and breathy in his ear.

"Yes," he groans. _Her tongue is bound to be better than my fingers,_ he thinks, as she pushes him into an armchair, slides her hands down his chest. _Yes, Maker, yes. Uncle, I'm sorry I doubted you._

She unzips his trousers. That's when he remembers some very pertinent information.

* * *

Missy Waters turns out to be a blue-haired dark-skinned babe, one with an ass for days and legs like a dancer. They don't have enough to all have a go separately, but if they pool their money, she'll let each of them pick a hole. Alistair sputters, but he follows them to the back anyway, figuring he can sit it out once they get there with far less fuss from the others; Steve, Cullen, and Samson bicker about who gets what on their way to the back.

So it's Alistair that hears the shouting first. "Guys? Guys! Do you hear that?"

As they fall silent, they can hear Trixie clearly: "Freak! Disgusting pervert! Give me that!" The woman storms out of the back past the group, waving what appears to be a dildo of some kind— but too floppy, surely, to pleasure anyone?— as she storms up to the bar. She slams the prosthetic down angrily, hissing to the bartender loud enough to be heard as the music stops.

"I told you, I don't. do. girls! Fucking bitch, creeping in here dressed in drag. What the hell! Do you think this is a goddamn joke! I want her and her friends out of here!"

Carver slinks out of the back room, holding his pants up with one hand, bright red, eyes downcast.

Steve frowns, looking between Trixie and Carver with a look of bafflement. "The fuck is she going on about?" Samson demands. "We prepaid!"

Cullen frowns at Carver. "Women?" he repeats. "What is she— Isn't that the girl with Carver?"

Fear closes Carver's throat, makes his voice come out a squeak: "N-no, I—"

Pivoting on her heel, the mostly nude Trixie is far from seductive thanks to the look of hateful loathing on her face. She scoops up the silicon shape off the bar and shakes it at the four Templar-in-training. " _Men_ don't have detachable dicks," she snarls. "I'm the fucking headliner here! I have a contract! No. Fucking. Women! Even freak ones that like to pretend to be boys!" As if to emphasis this, she hurls the packer at Carver but her aim is off enough it goes right at Cullen's face. Cullen tries to duck, but not fast enough; the dong hits him square between the eyes, causing peals of laughter from nearby patrons.

"That's a fake dick," Steve points out helpfully, still confused, staring at it.

"Can we just go home?" whispers Carver, bright red.

"You're a chick?" Samson demands, glaring at Carver.

"No! I'm— I'm a guy," he whimpers.

Samson scoffs, then turns to the bartender. "I'll whip it out as proof if you want, but we didn't do anything wrong and we already paid," he wheedles. "Kick _her_ out but no harm in us staying, right?"

"You came together, you leave together," says the bartender, crossing his arms. "Get out of here before I call security."

"I want my money back then," Samson demands, trickling in just a hint of Templar power to make his eyes gleam. Steve, scowling, flexes his shoulders as he moves to stand next to Samson. "We're not leaving without either a gangbang or our money back." Neither of them notice the quartet of massive gentleman with baseball bats coming up behind them.

Twenty minutes later, Steve is cradling his broken wrist as Samson limps next to Cullen, who is helping hold the smaller Templar upright. Carver and Alistair were more or less fine, having gone peaceably. As they reach Samson's jeep, Samson glares at Carver. "This is your fucking fault!"

"Sorry," he whispers. "I'll — I'll take an Uber—"

Cullen grabs his arm, hauling him toward the Jeep. "Get in. You said you have a hotel? Maybe we can order a girl there."

"With what money," Steve grits out, seething over their failed attempt at getting a refund. "And what about my arm?"

"It's a hairline fracture, a minor one," Alistair offers. "Should only take a couple of weeks at most to heal up." Being a Templar, even a trainee, has some perks. Quickened healing times is among the best.

"Homecoming game is in twenty days!" Steve hisses. "If I can't play, I'm going to take it out your ass," he threatens Carver.

"I have money," whispers Carver, still ashamed. "Credit card."

Cullen pushes him into the backseat, traps him in the center between himself and Alistair and pulls the door shut. "And have your dad pay for our hooker?"

"Oh she'll make it up to us," Samson says in an angry growl from the front. _One way or another._ "The fuck is— the fuck is wrong with you anyway? You've been lying to us since— since when?"

"I'm not a girl!" he hisses. "I'm not. I'm Carver Amell and I'm a boy. I just— I just don't— I just don't have the right... you know. Stuff."

"What, it fall off or something?" Steve snaps as he roots through his bag with his off hand. "Fuck!" he snarls, throwing it back at them. "I have some weed hidden in the deodorant. Get it out for me."

"Should you be—"

"Alistair, I will beat you to death if you start harping on about my fucking weed right now."

Cullen roots through the bag as Carver stammers, "y-y-e, it's, it's a medical thing."

"A medical thing?" Alistair asks tentatively. "Like... like people born without all their fingers and stuff?"

"Yeah, it's, it's there but it's small, is all," stammers Carver. "I wear a, a thing, to make it seem bigger."

"Small," Samson says blandly. "Small enough that whore missed it entirely?"

"The— the room was dark, and—"

"Bullshit. Whores know their business," Cullen cuts in. "Cut the crap, Carver. We deserve the truth."

"That _is_ the truth," he whispers, hot tears of shame burning their way down his flaming cheeks.

"I mean..." Alistair shifts awkwardly in his seat. "We're supposed to be friends..."

"If we've been hanging out with a girl, we deserve to know," Steve agrees, though that wasn't entirely where Alistair was going with his point.

"I do want to be friends," whispers Carver. "But I'm n-not a girl." _Aren't I? I'm not, right? This wasn't... I wasn't... I'm not lying. I think._

"Whatever, did you find my weed?" Steve demands. "My arm aches like a bitch. We almost at the hotel?"

Samson rolls his eyes. "We've been driving for three minutes, so, no, of course not numbnuts."

"Weed, coming up," says Cullen, tossing the deodorant container to Steve. "How about some music? You got any tunes in this thing?"

"Of course— got Slayer and AC/DC in the deck. But I'm sure we can get some Brittney Spears on the radio if Carver wants," Samson says with a snigger.

Cullen snorts. "Girls."

"I like Slayer," mutters Carver.

"Fine, pop it in."

Carver leans forward, hitting a few buttons on the radio from his unbuckled position in the middle seat.

"The fuck are— Maker Carver, get the fuck away from—" Samson, twisting in his seat to glare at Carver, completely misses the light turning red ahead of him. Or the car that brakes for the light. The car with red and blue lights on the roof and the township name on the sides.

Carver fares worst, being thrown forward into the radio console; he plops his butt back in his seat, rubbing his bruised head, hissing in pain. "The fuck?!"

Sirens and flashing lights answer Carver's question pretty fucking quickly. "Fuck, we hit a cop car," Steve says in disbelief, joint held in the corner of his mouth.

Alistair makes a whimpering noise.

"Fuck, hide the weed!" Carver hisses.

"Where?" Steve demands, snatching the blunt and holding it behind the dash. Ahead of them, a cop gets out of each side of the car. "Back in the deodorant!" Samson snaps. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. We got lost trying to find our motel, we were distracted. Carver, you were trying to point out a street sign. We've never ever heard of strippers before."

"Right, got it." Carver glances up, trying to read the street sign. "Shit, I can't read it."

"Fine, then you were trying to read the stree— everyone shut up," he hisses as a cop approaches the car door. He rolls down the window and offers a broad smile. "Hello officer. Really sorry about hitting your car, we're lost and— you're an elf?" he blurts out, then flinches.

It goes downhill from there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver and his new friends went to a strip club, where his unfortunate birth defect led to them being thrown out. Then they were arrested for rear-ending a cop car. Now, they head back to school to be reamed out by their school administration... and their parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for missing a week -- we decided to rework some chapters and I wasn't sure if chapter 2 was going to be part of that. It's not, but we're going to improve the chapters in the backlog so you'll get a better final product. Thanks for sticking with us! 
> 
> CW: low-level background transphobia

" _Horribly_ disappointed in all of you. Theirin, you in particular. Your record was spotless before last night." Knight-Captain Rylock, head of the Templar training program at the Mother Terasis du Lion Academy, gives the five students a hard look. Next to her, Coach Darrell silently scowls as he leans against a wall with crossed arms. "And now? Underage drinking, DUI, _hitting a cop car_ , drug use..." She shakes her head. "Well? Anyone like to explain any of this?"

Carver sure as hell doesn't. He huddles in his seat, looking miserable beyond reason.

Cullen doesn't either, but if nobody starts talking quick, _Samson_ will, and that'd be worse. "We were going to a party and got lost," he mutters. "A hotel party. I didn't know Carroll had a joint on him. None of the rest of us smoke."

Steve's head snaps around. "Fuck you," he snarls, wanting to toss him under the bus too. _But I know the guy code. Unlike some assholes_. "It's medicinal."

"Really," the Knight-Captain says wryly. "And who prescribed it?"

Shifting awkwardly, Steve attempts to adopt a dignified expression. "My family's physician. You can confirm it with my dad."

"Steve has anxiety," adds Cullen. "It's calming. We were having an argument, me and Carver, we stressed him out. None of us smoke for fun."

"We got lost," Samson says sullenly. "Carver fucked up the directions." Carver flinches, but silently nods, agreeing with Samson's assessment.

Snorting, the Coach cuts in. "Prescription or not, weed takes you right off my roster." _No way am I risking a dis-qual for one player. Or two even_.

Steve stiffens. "That's bullshit!"

"Shut it Carroll," he barks at the formerly starting striker. "And the drinking?"

"Carver bought it for us, for his birthday," Samson says instantly, having been waiting for that question. Carver just nods again, eyes downcast, silent.

"Amell?" the Templar presses, wanting an actual answer as her instincts prod her that something is up.

"Yessm," he whispers. "It's my fault, ma'am."

"I see. Well, according to the police report, it was Samson driving the jeep, so legally, the crash and the DUI are his fault." Rylock says bluntly, silencing Samson with a glare when he starts to protest. "That's out of my hands. Whatever Amell did or didn't do, you got behind the wheel drunk and with only a learner's permit; which means one passenger and off the roads by eleven pm." The crash occurring at just after midnight. "As the four of you are aware— or damn well should be— criminal charges during your Templar training have consequences. All of you are on probation for the next two months. Carroll, you'll be getting tested at random during this time. Samson, due to the additional charges, is no longer eligible for the automatic promotion to Grade two after graduation."

"Amell, you're off the starting team. Prepare for more laps than you've ever dreamed of," the soccer coach says with a frown.

"What? Why isn't he getting—"

"Because booze isn't drugs! Now shut it Carroll."

"Yes, sir," says Carver, still doing his best to sink into the seat and vanish forever.

"Amell, you're dismissed," Rylock says, waving at him. "You four, however, can stay put. We're not done here." Samson and Steve tense, but manage to not say anything again. Alistair, dazed and overwhelmed that all of this is actually happening, just continues to slowly shake his head slightly.

It takes him a moment, but Carver gets to his feet, fleeing the room, his stomach churning with dread.

That's when his phone rings.

* * *

By the time he gets to the girls dorm, letting himself into Beth's room with the key she really wasn't supposed to make for him, he's on his second call of the day. "Uh-huh. No, I got it. Thanks. Yup. Grounded until forever. Got it. No sir. No sir. Sorry, sir. Thank you, sir."

Thankfully Beth's roommate isn't there; he flops onto the roommate's bed, still listening to the voice on the phone. "Love you too, Dad," he says, after a few more moments, then hangs up.

A tousled head pokes up from the other bed, sleepy eyes trying to focus. "'za'u Carver?" Beth asks, voice slurred with sleep. Sure, it's nearly ten, but it's also a Saturday.

"Yeah," he says, and his voice is quiet, almost inaudible, as he stares up at the ceiling.

"Mmmm. Come cud'le," she orders him, burrowing back under the covers.

Carver stays right where he is. _The last thing I need is to ruin her day, too. What if her roommate comes back? Do non-twin brothers and sisters cuddle, in high school?_

After too long a pause, a low growl comes from the wad of blankets. When that doesn't work, Bethany's head pokes back out. "Carver? Did I dream you here?" she asks, squinting as she tries to find him in the dim lighting without her contacts in.

"No," he says quietly.

Beth's eyes lock in on him. "What happened? Come here," she says, sitting up and pushing back the covers to reveal she's wearing on of Garrett's shirts. She must have snagged it over break. She's terrible about that; mostly Carver's old shirts but Garrett and even Marian are fair game.

"It's fine. I wouldn't... I wouldn't want to compromise you," he says, his voice cracking.

"I'm dressed, you're hurting, _get over here_ ," she demands, patting the bed next to her. "Please?"

"I hurt enough people today," he whispers, and then the tears start up, dripping down his face as he tries to muffle his sobs into ragged gasps instead.

_Okay, enough is enough._ Tossing off the covers, Beth slides out of her bed and moves over to plop herself down against her twin. "Now talk."

He buries his face against her shoulder, sobbing into it, his shoulders shaking with the strength of it.

"Shhhhh, shhh," Beth whisper as she holds him close. "I have you, ma'win. I have you." _What the fuck happened last night? He said he was just hanging out with some friends!_ Thoughts racing, she patiently rocks and soothes her twin until he's ready.

"I'm off the st-starting lineup," he murmurs, finally. "St-steve's off the team."

_Which one is Steve?_ "That's... really terrible. What happened?" she asks gently.

"We— we _may_ have been drinking, a bit, and Steve had his pot, and— and we hit a cop car. With Samson driving, and he's on probation or, not probation, the one, he's underage."

"Oh. Damn." _Wait, cops? That would mean..._ "Oooh. Mom and Dad?"

"Both called me. Furious."

"Well, you weren't the one driving drunk," Beth offers, stroking his hair. "That's something."

"I bought the beer," he protests. "For my birthday. We drank some before heading to the hotel."

Beth frowns. "Shouldn't _they_ have bought the beer if it was for your birthday? That's really shitty, making you pay for your own party stuff."

"Well, but, I had cash for my birthday. So I got the hotel and the beer."

"You're doing the thing with your lip," Beth says, eyes narrowing, calling him out for lying.

"Fine, it was Gamlen. He gave me the outing as a birthday gift. There was going to be a stripper involved." _Why am I lying? Fuck it, now she'll know I was lying and I don't want to talk about what happened at the club._

"Ugh." Beth makes a face. "Of course he would pay for— hey! Why didn't I get a secret stripper present?" she demands.

"What'd he give you again?"

Beth scoffs loudly. "A weekend pass at a horse ranch. Sorry, I should be more clear. A weekend pass at a _working_ horse ranch. Not show horses. Regular horses. When have I ever expressed an interest in horses? Or livestock?"

Carver makes a face. "Maybe he meant you to find a hot cowboy? Girl?"

"Girl, but I doubt it," Beth mutters. "Anyway. You, party, blame, sad."

"Samson lost his promotion. He might drop out of the Templar training. Everyone else is on probation." He shudders. "My fault. They hate me now."

"How is it your fault?" Beth demands protectively. "You didn't hold them all down and pour beer on their faces "

"It just is."

"Carver," Beth warns him, rolling over atop him so she can glare down at him.

Carver averts his eyes, silent. Finally, in a small voice, he whispers, "they called me a girl."

Beth blinks. "What," she demands, voice shrill and razor-sharp. "Who? Why?" She doesn't notice the faint sheen of heat waves coming off her skin.

Carver flinches, falling silent, closing his eyes as if to play dead.

Wincing, Beth grabs her temper by the throat and chokes it back with the skill of long practice. "Sorry," she mumbles. "Not upset with you."

"...it's fine. Can I just have a nap?"

"We should move over to my bed, but yes," Bethany says with a smile. "Maribell just went out to explore, not sure when she'll be back."

"...it won't be a problem if I'm in your bed when she gets back?" asks Carver, quietly.

"Stay dressed— well take your shoes off— and I don't see why," Beth replies with a shrug. "I'll even put some sweats on."

Carver gives a small nod. "...okay."

Beth kisses his cheek and rises. Padding over to her dresser, she pulls out a pair of worn sweats with the school logo on them to put over her boy shorts. "Do you want music on? Need to wash your face or whatever?"

"No," he says quietly. "I just want you."

Beth's heart pounds a little and she blushes. _What I would give to hear that from someone I'm **not** related to. Preferably a woman._ She smiles lovingly at him as she gets back into bed. Pulling the sheet over her, she pats the bed. "Come on then."

Carver slides into bed beside her, snuggling up to her, breathing in her familiar scent, feeling her comforting warmth and squish underneath him. "I love you," he whispers, eyes drifting closed.

"love you too, ma'win. You and me, always," she murmurs as she cradles him close. She flicks the blanket over them both and closes her eyes. _Biggest regret of having a brother: I could have had a sister room with me all these years. Oh well. Just makes naps like this a treat._

The pair nap for a few hours before Maribell returns to the dorm. It's a little awkward at first, the slightly older girl not expecting company, but she's very accommodating and understanding. After a pizza lunch that Carver barely touches, the two girls try to engage Carver in conversation, then a movie. He's slowly coming around, or at least faking it better, when Bethany gets a text. "Emergency Student Gov meeting. Probably Homecoming. Dammit."

It takes a bit, but Carver eventually convinces her that he'll be fine if she heads off, that he'll just head back to his dorm and read for a bit, get started on his classwork. The young man is almost at Jeremiah Hall when his cell rings. A glance reveals he's about to get his fifth round of rollicking.

Carver sighs, ducking into the dorm common room before he answers. "Hello?"

"Carver, what the fuck did you do?" Gamlen demands crossly.

"Sorry, sir," he whimpers.

"What was that? Speak up!"

"I'm sorry," he croaks, bolting for the stairs.

"Sorry? _Sorry?_ You got me blacklisted! Madame Temperance has places everywhere and I'm forbidden from going to any of them now." _Six months without being able to bang the Twitty Twins, all because you tried to cheat yourself some extras._ "Well?"

_What if my roommate's home?_ he thinks, ducking into the men's room instead. Middle of the day on Saturday, it's unlikely there'll be anyone in there. he slips into a stall, sitting on the seat. "I didn't mean to, I'm sorry, I didn't— I didn't think."

"Just like your brother," Gamlen mutters darkly. "I thought you were better than this, Carver."

"I tried, I wore my packer and everything, but she said— she called me a girl, said I was a pervert, a freak, she wouldn't— she threw me out, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have used it, I should never have redeemed your gift." Carver struggles to slow his breathing enough to get oxygen, hating how blurred his vision is from holding back tears.

There's a long pause. _Packer? What the fuck is he— oh. Right, he ain't got a dick. Shit._ "Fucking hell," Gamlen grumbles. "Why didn't you say something?"

"I didn't think, I'm sorry, I just, I like girls, I thought— I thought it'd be okay but it _wasn't_ and I'm so sorry—"

"Well, sorry doesn't change a thing. What do you plan to do about it?"

"I— I'm on probation, I can't— I can pay you back? I can work, or sell something.."

"Not about the money," Gamlen snaps. He's silent a moment, though Carver can hear rapid strumming as his uncle taps on a desk or the like, a gesture Carver has seen a few times before when his uncle is particularly agitated. "No, money isn't going to fix this. You owe me, my boy, but we'll just have to let it lie for now."

"Sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry I'm a fuck-up. I'm sorry. Let me know what I can do to make it right."

"Keep your damn head down for now. What with the shit your brother and sister have done lately, the family can't afford any more scandal. You hear me? Keep. Your head. _Down_. No more trouble, not with the law, with school or even just embarrassment."

"Yes sir," he says quietly. "Keep my head down. Don't make trouble."

"Good," Gamlen says tersely, then sighs. "I know you didn't mean none of this. But that doesn't mean you don't have to fix it. Remember that, alright?"

"Yes, sir," he whispers. "Take responsibility for my mistakes, even if they were accidental. I will, sir."

"Good." Gamlen takes a deep breath. "Good." And then the line cuts off.

Carver stares at the phone, lowering it to his lap. He chokes out a sob, strangling it into a whimper, bending at the waist and rocking back and forth a bit to self-soothe. _Don't make trouble. You've caused enough problems for the family already._

As Carver sits, collecting himself, he hears the door to the restroom open. Two voices, bantering about some video game or something, then silence as the pair attend to their business. A few moments later, the door opens again as the banter resumes as they leave.

_I should go. Before anyone else sees me_. Carver, now collected, pushes the stall door open, wiping at his eyes.

As he steps out, he comes face to face with a young man. He has close cropped black hair, not quite Templar recruit standard (not that most Templar keep to that standard either) and an Andraste icon around his neck, but unmarked robes. Rather strange for a non-mage yet any mage would have to have the mark of the Circle on them. The young man stares placidly at Carver before speaking in an even monotone. "You are distressed. May I help?"

"I— what did you hear?" he croaks.

"Everything you said since entering the restroom," is the unfortunate reply. "You are being abused. I wish to help."

"I— I'm not," he says, wiping at his eyes again. "It's just— I just fucked up real bad. That's all."

"It is an insult and probably prelude to violence to address a person as 'freak,'" the young man replies, expression never changing. "I have both established statistical data and personal empirical evidence of this. I wish to help."

"Oh, th-that was— I was telling my uncle how I got attacked by a stranger, that wasn't— that wasn't someone I know."

"Your vocal inflection and body language suggests otherwise." The stranger pauses. "Ah. My apologies. I am Owain Davies, a junior here. I should have introduced myself earlier. That was rude."

"...Carver. Look, I was attacked the other night, thrown out of an establishment. That's all. I don't— I'm not being abused."

"I see. Have you reported this altercation?"

"No," he admits. "I was drinking."

"I have been given to understand that is typical," Owain notes. "And often a minor offense. Assault, particularly when motivated by bigotry, is considered a more pressing matter by authorities."

"Bigotry? No bigotry, just, you know, a fight."

Owain tilts his head. "You do not consider transphobia to be bigotry?"

"Shh!" he hisses, eyes wide, reaching to put a finger over Owain's lips. "No, there's no— I'm not— it's — no need to tell anyone—"

"Ah. This is a secret. I understand."

"Maker, I'm fucked," Carver whimpers.

"Why?"

"The more people that know a secret, the harder it is to keep."

"That is a common saying. But incomplete. People can also serve to protect a secret."

"And you'd do that for a total stranger you found crying in the bathroom?"

"I wish to help," Owain repeats, then pauses. "More context seems required. I am Tranquil. I have been aided and protected by others that thought that I should not be called 'freak' and harmed. I wish to do the same."

Carver visibly recoils. "You're— I'm so sorry," he says, earnestly. "That must be awful."

"It is not. I am healthy and productive. It is the behavior of others that reduces my quality of life. But I thank you for your sympathy. That you are able to offer such at this time speaks well of you."

Carver glances away. "My brother was almost made Tranquil recently. They kidnapped him illegally to do it."

"I am glad he was not made Tranquil," Owain replies gently. "Rules are important. Tranquility should not be a punishment."

"Why would you want to be, be castrated? Or, not literally but—?"

"I was unable to withstand temptation. Better this than to be taken," Owain says simply.

Carver chews on his bottom lip, thinking. "But demons can take anyone, right? Not just mages?"

"Any house may be robbed but mages are the rich. I was unable to lock my doors." The cadence of that sounds half-quote and half mantra.

Carver nods slowly. "Sorry," he says, after a minute. "you probably don't want every conversation to be about your being Tranquil. I just..."

"Understanding is important. You are respectful." Owain smiles, the expression a little stiff but natural seeming enough. Better than more than a few 'normal' people Carver knows for sure. "Now. I wish to help you."

"Then just don't tell anyone what you heard. I'll be okay."

Owain's smile shifts to a frown. "That seems... insufficient. You are distressed." He bows slightly. "May I purchase you hot chocolate? Or pie?"

"...pie is fine," he says, after a moment.

"Good. I have been informed that pie is second only to ice cream for providing dietary comfort. Regrettably, I am lactose intolerant and comfort foods are meant to be shared."

"Sure. Let's get some pie."

* * *

The student government president, Lucynda "Cyndi" Blacquin, is Orlesian by birth; her family owns several large vineyards in the Champagne region of Orlais, but they also own property in the UP, and traditionally send their eldest daughters to Chantry schools instead of keeping her close at hand. Her looks are striking compared to most in the room: she has long, white-blonde hair, and she wears a half-mask as the Orlesions do despite being far from The Game. Her violet eyes are fierce and cold under her silver mask, a trait that breeds true and lends her family the violet highlights they emblazoned on her mask. She is tall, thin, and serious, commanding the room in a way few can manage at this age.

Her best friend and vice president, Shannon Marass, is the exact opposite. Shan's hair is a warm, honey-blonde, and her eyes are a deep, clear blue; when she smiles, she makes you believe you're the only one to ever see that smile, the only one to catch her fancy. Her family, as well, is rich beyond reason, UP citizens by way of Norway, owners of a mega-corporation that owns many household brands under various sub-corporations. She is the captain of the varsity cheer squad, with Cyndi as her vice-captain, a distribution of honors and authority settled via a gentlewoman's agreement between the pair.

As Beth enters, slipping into the library, Cyndi is speaking: "—coming is only a few weeks away, which doesn't give us much time to campaign. Now. As it would hardly be fair to my beloved Shan, I will withdraw my candidacy for Homecoming Queen; I expect everyone here to lend their vote to the remaining candidate they feel is the most beautiful and best embodies the spirit of the school."

Cyndi leaves no doubt as to whom she is referring, of course.

_Ah, so that's how they're going to handle that. Makes sense; the two of them going at each other would probably destroy the school_. Despite the idleness of the thought, she's perfectly serious. Most of the faculty has less authority and reach than the two girls, between their families and their own personal connections. Beth dawdles a moment in the doorway as if waiting for a break in the speech, but in truth she's checking Shannon out. Well, Cyndi too, if she's honest, though the silver-haired girl is a bit slim for her preference. _Still, those legs. And her looks are striking. I wonder if she ever has sex with the mask on? Woah, down girl. I need to rub one out but good._

Gathering her thoughts, she spots Andrea and Neria and heads over to them. Andrea, as secretary for the council, has her head down so low over her paper all Beth can see is her fizzy brown hair. _One day she'll finally admit she needs glasses and half the school is going to lose their minds over how pretty her eyes are_ , Beth muses as she thinks about how little the human orphan ever looks up. "Hey," she murmurs, taking a seat next to Neria.

Neria, by contrast, is watching the speakers intently. Her bag is at her feet, covered in buttons: Greenpeace, abolish the Wardens, save the elves, Dalish Power, Smash the Patriarchy, Save the Dales, and more. She wears a beret, an affectation she's become rather fond of, and her pretty red hair is bound back in a braid behind her. "Hey," she replies.

On her other side is her best friend Teddy — also known as Theodosia, but only once, as calling Teddy by _that name_ repeatedly leads to your being punched in the face. Teddy's the one who gave Neria the pin she wears on her jumper that just reads "queer as in fuck you"; Teddy's cause, rather than being about elf rights, is about queer liberation. Today, Teddy wears a pin that reads "they/them". A new addition; the last time Beth saw the theatre nerd, Teddy was going by "she/her" pronouns.

Beth glances at the pin on Teddy's shirt, then cocks her head to the side. With a little thought, she asks, 'support or you?' in her still somewhat clumsy sign.

Teddy glances down at their shirt, then nods, grinning. They tap the pin and sign, 'me', knowing Beth will be able to understand that sign. Next up are more complex ones: 'P-r-o-n-o-u-n-s don't have g-e-n-d-e-r, so, support and me. I can be a girl and use [taps pin]'.

Beth narrows her eyes, watching Teddy's hands carefully as she tries to follow along. Thankfully Teddy is well used to going slowly for people and Beth mostly follows along. 'Good for you. Glad pin. Will try best.' Smiling, she refocuses on the two leaders as they wrap up the 'speechifying' part of the meeting.

"—break into teams, and come up with campaign slogans and poster ideas. The best ideas will be used. Good luck, and may the Maker smile upon your efforts!"

Clearly this isn't an official meeting, then, or Cyndi wouldn't feel so empowered to support a single candidate.

Shannon rises to her feet and holds out her hands to get everyone's attention. "Before I start handing out assignments, I'd like to just say thank you to everyone for showing up with so little notice. We were going to have this meeting next Thursday, but the faculty had other plans for our evening that day. Not that any of you know anything about a school-wide assembly that will be announced suddenly Wednesday overnight." She smiles warmly, eyes alight with invitation to play along. "But let's get working. Rosters are— thank you Devin— on the board there."

"I'm working with Shan and Cyndi?" Beth nearly squeaks the question, though thankfully her volume is low.

Teddy grins, giving a quick thumbs-up to Beth. Neria, by contrast, mutters a jealous "Cheerleader privilege."

"Hey, I'm more than just a cheerleader," Beth says, flushing a little. _Why did Teddy do that? Does she know? They know?_

Their fourth is Florianne de Chalons, representative for the cheerleaders to the student government; each major group has a representative, with Neria being the rep for the theatre group. Alistair represents the Templars, and Nick the soccer team, but neither are here today— intentional? Or just due to last minute weekend scheduling?

Cyndi gets out a notebook, jotting down ideas as they have them. And it's clear they had Beth for a reason: Cyndi and Shan listen attentively to her ideas, considering them thoughtfully. "I like the bake sale idea," says Cyndi slowly. "It does work in Shan's favor, making her more approachable, less aloof."

"Are you certain...?" asks Florianne, slowly, frowning a bit. "I mean, no offense, but... the Amells aren't exactly PR darlings anymore. Should we be taking their advice?"

Beth laughs softly, the tips of her toes warming up. "Please, my family is more popular than ever! Garrett's bad boy turned good image is _golden_. Why, he was actually asked to speak at his old high school on the dangers of 'living fast and dying young' just a few days ago."

"Is living fast and dying young something our campaign should be associated with?" argues Florianne. "Maybe it's best we go with something different— say, a car wash."

"Like last year?" Beth says with a moue. "No, I think newer, fresher idea might be needed. Sure, Shan is going to win, but that doesn't mean we should put forth some limp, boring effort." She leans back, shaking her head. "Besides, the point is _not_ doing those things, obviously." _And you'd have to be a moron to not realize it. Or, perhaps, are trying to imply that Shan and Cyndi are?_

"It _is_ fair that her brother has developed a sort of... playboy image," says Cyndi, slowly. "But I don't think her idea is a bad one. We just won't use her in the footage for the commercial."

Beth's lips tighten for just a second before she hides it. "That's fine, the focus should be on Shan anyway. Actually, maybe we have her working alongside the home ec group? Kind of a lesson on baking?"

"Oh la, I like that better!" Shannon says with a laugh. "As amusing as it would be to see the council struggle to bake, it would be nice to have something edible at the end of it!"

"Oh I know how to bake," Beth says artlessly. "Cakes anyway. I've gotten rather good at them, if I may say so for myself."

"I'm certain using a box mix would be a bad look," laughs Florianne. "I like the home ec idea. Let's see if we can use the home ec room for the baking? And of course the A/V club's equipment?"

"I can ask their heads," Beth says with a nod, not seeming to notice the dig against her baking skills. "I'll work with Brit on coming up with a few recipes. Figure one or two that you'll do and a half dozen others that they'll do. Split the proceeds after cost between their club funds and a charity?"

"Always more need than funds," Shan says warmly, pleased that Beth had just assumed she would donate it, paying for her campaigning out of her own pocket. _I think it's been long enough, I can donate to NDSS again without raising any eyebrows._

"Wonderful. So Cyndi can get the go ahead from the facility, I'll coordinate with the AV and Home ec groups, Shan will get herself a new dress she can bake in and Florianne... I guess you're not really needed," Beth says with a bright laugh. "Sorry."

"Nonsense," says Cyndi at once. "Who will edit the footage if not for our dear Florianne?"

"Oh, I hadn't realized she has such a skill and assumed the AV group would do it," Beth says with all signs of surprise. "Well done Florianne."

"Remind us again what your talents are, dearest Bethany? I don't believe we've need of, ah, party supplies," replies Florianne sweetly.

"Coming up with brilliant ideas evidently," Bethany replies in the same exact tone. "Diplomacy, compassion, creativity. I'm multifaceted, inside and out. Not everyone is willing to skate by on their looks after all."

"Not that all of us _can_ , of course," chuckles Florianne.

"True, but ah, _they_ have other qualities that endear them to us."

"Right, I think we have a plan now, let's get to work," says Cyndi, clearly amused behind her unchanging mask. _They're in rare form today._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver's in big trouble: removed from the starting line-up over underaged drinking, and he's pissed off the Templar boys that he was trying to become friends with. How will this shake out at school? And what about that odd Tranquil boy he met in the dorm bathrooms? Will he see Owain again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: misgendering, diet talk, slurs, hazing/bullying, self-harm

The campus at Mother Terasis du Lion Academy is a small one, tucked away in the Florida Keys where real estate is expensive. At lunch, there aren't outdoor picnic tables to eat at; most of the common areas are indoors, thanks to the risk of hurricanes in the fall semester and swarms of bugs the rest. The cafeteria is actually in the school's basement, doubling as a hurricane shelter, and so does the indoor soccer stadium thanks to shutters that seal off the windows in the event of an emergency. Some students do eat out on the bleachers around the basketball court, of course, and others eat in the library where the lighting is more natural.

Beth has, over the years since she and Carver had moved from Mama Terasis du Lion Preparatory School to the Academy proper, gotten into a rather elaborate routine. She moves from place to place for her lunches, sitting with different groups nearly every day according to some intricate schedule only her twin seems to be able to follow. While she sits with the cheer squads and theatre geeks the most— the lounge area in the cafeteria and the drama classroom respectively— she acts as almost a messenger system and web among the various groups. Today, she slips into the line and then heads towards the area long held as sacred territory by the elite.

Today's crowd: Florianne, Liselle, Shan, and Cyndi, all four cheerleaders doing their makeup and braiding each other's hair more than eating. This is unsurprising; all four of them are on diets, with Cyndi doing pure calorie regulation on a 5:2 diet ("calories in, calories out, at the end of the day that's all it is"), Liselle doing a modified form of South Beach that seems to primarily consist of meal replacement shakes ("it's got sixteen grams of protein and no bad carbs whatsoever"), Florianne doing Keto ("Ketosis is the body's natural state"), and Shannon doing Mediterranean-bordering-on-Vegan ("plant based diets are just healthier in the long run, plus no poor animals have to die").

Bethany is just eating a salad with oil and vinegar dressing, no cheese or bacon. A hard boiled egg and an apple round it out. _Ugh. I love having lunch with Shan and Cyndi but I hate eating with them. I can't fathom how they eat like this in public all the time._ The secret mage, having long since instinctively started using low level healing magic to constantly fix any soreness or injuries as well as bolster her immune system and tone her muscles, simply assumes they all cheat in private just like she does. Maybe not as badly— she honestly can't picture Cyndi eating a half-pounder with bacon, cheese and sautéed mushrooms or Florianne having double chocolate cake— but she assumes they're eating far more than they do where people are watching. "Vitamin check," Beth singsongs as she sets her tray down.

Smirking, Shannon waves her fingertips at Beth. "Yes, yes, Mama Bear, I've been taking my vitamins," she says with a laugh. _La, she really does love to fuss. She's going to make a darling mother one day. Shame she'll have to get married to do so_. "And I know Cyndi has been as well," she adds for her roommate.

Cyndi, evidently on one of her 'fast' days, doesn't look up from braiding Shan's hair, her yogurt cup sitting unopened on the low table in front of them. "Yup."

Florianne rolls her eyes a little, but nods. "Lis and me, too."

"Good," Beth says firmly. _Maker— Chaos only knows— wait, no, chaos is a curse. Uh. Fuck it. Elven gods only knows what they eat in their own time. I know I wasn't doing it right before Carver started looking into dietary stuff for muscle gain_. "How you been Lis? Anything interesting on your break?" she asks curiously, having not seen the girl since they got back.

As the girl launches into an explanation of her summer— including cheer camp, of course— across the way, Beth can see Carver enter, heading to the table where his soccer friends are. As she watches, he goes to sit by Tony Penteghast, only for Tony's bag to suddenly be lifted onto the spot where he was about to sit. Slightly annoyed, he moves to sit by Julian Gaider, only for Jules to shift over a little, turning away from Carver as he keeps talking. None of the boys so much as look at him, but it's clear there's nowhere for him to sit. Not with them.

Carver doesn't look toward the Templar table. He just... keeps walking, right out the other door of the cafeteria.

"Oh blast," Beth says with a groan. "I totally forgot— sorry, Imma have to bail. See you in class," she says without pause, not even bothering to grab her lunch. She's still just a little slow; as she comes out, she spies the men's room door swinging shut behind Carver. "Security," Beth calls at the door, knocking twice in quick succession. She enters without waiting, looking for her twin.

Carver looks up, a bleak look on his face, his tray set to the side between the sinks. "Beth," he hiccups, trying to hold back tears. "This is the m-men's r-room, isn't it?"

"Yep," Beth says brightly as she moves towards him. "Don't care."

He turns toward her, but before he approaches, he ducks and looks under the stalls for feet. Spying none, he turns, wrapping his arms around her and resting his head on her shoulder. "Hey."

"Hey, brother mine," she whispers back. "Wanna go sneak some food into your room? Or my room, if your... who's your roommate this year?"

"Alistair Guerrin," he says with a bit of a face.

"Alistair... Alistair... oh! I think I have poly-sci with him this year. Seemed earnest. Kinda cute and sweet, like a golden retriever. Has he been... a good roommate so far?" she finishes delicately.

Carver wrinkles his nose. "He's so dopey. Like a dog. He's eager and hopeless. Not at all cool."

"I like dogs," Beth says mildly, grinning. "Want to go eat your lunch there?"

"No," he groans. "He hates me too."

"Want I should beat him up?" Beth offers, not for the first time. Thankfully, after elementary school, she's learned to ask first instead of just hauling off and decking the offending party.

"No. He's right to hate me. I fucked it."

"How?" Beth asks, frowning. _I had heard some stuff going around about the soccer team but no details. What the fuck happened?_

"I got him put on probation," he admits.

"For what? For how long? And why is he getting punished for something you did? That doesn't make sense." _Which implies he did something too._

"He came to my birthday," he admits.

"What, no he— you invited _him_ but not me to your—" Beth clears her throat, but her hurt outburst lingers in the air.

"Beth," he hisses. "We all almost got _arrested_!"

Beth winces, looking abashed. "Sorry. Just you just said you don't like him but— Arrested? Like by actual cops?"

"I mean, they let us off with a warning but they called the school and took Samson's license," he admits. "I only invited Alistair because he's friends with Cullen and Cullen's friends with Samson and I wanted Samson to come, but now they all hate me and they told everyone about what I did and now everyone on the team hates me because I got Steve kicked off and—" he runs out of air, and his intake is ragged as he tries not to cry.

"Holy shit," Beth breathes out, eyes wide. "That sounds, uh, well, that kind of caught fire."

"I may as well quit school and hide in my room forever," he mutters.

"Hey, hey, hey. Deep breath okay?" Beth squeezes his tightly. "Why are they blaming you? You didn't trick them into coming or drinking."

"It's my fault. Can you trust me on that?"

Beth scowls. "I trust that you believe it but you put too much on yourself," she grumbles. _Still, I promised myself never to push or control you. Not like the rest of our family. The adults anyway._

"But because I fucked it up, now they all hate me."

"Well... Step one I figure is give them some space," Beth suggests. "Maybe hang out with me for a few days."

"I— I'd rather not," he says quietly.

"Ouch," Beth says lightly, pouting.

"No, it's just— you're a girl. I don't..."

Beth snorts. "Glad you noticed," she says, unable to stop herself from pressing harder against him for just a second. "And you know, most guys would give a random limb to be able to hang out with me and my friends— Shan and Cyndi especially— for a few days, invited."

"It's just, if I were a girl we'd hang out more," he whispers. "I don't want to..."

"Oh." _Bad dysphoria day? Makes sense_. "Umm. Well. Do you know any guys that aren't... Templar or soccer members slash fans?"

"Uh... I met this guy, Owain..?"

Beth blinks a few times. "Owain. Dark hair, real polite, umm... Very, uh, stoic? Reserved?"

"Tranquil," he confirms. "But a nice guy. He bought me pie."

"Yeah, he is. He helps out with the drama club. Costuming and prop work. He's like professional level with carpentry and almost as good with wigs." Beth tilts her head. "Pie?"

"He... He caught me crying. He wanted to cheer me up."

"Good on him," Beth says with a grin. "He normally spends his free time in the drama shop. If you want to say thanks, buy him some pretzels. I see him eating them a lot, though we don't talk much." She winces a little. "Kind of unnerves me. Seeing what... you know." _What could happen to me._

Carver swallows, nods. "I thought of Garrett, right off." _I'd never let them take you like they did him._

"Yeah," Beth says softly. "First time I saw him afterwards, I bolted from the room. Felt mega guilty afterwards but..."

Carver nods. "Maybe I can eat with him?"

"Drama club room," Beth says with a nod. "I doubt anyone there will care about..."

"Okay." He takes a deep breath. "Okay."

Ten minutes later, he, Beth, and his tray are slipping into the drama club room. His eyes skim right past Neria, Andrea, and Teddy, pause briefly on Owain, and come to rest on the most beautiful man he's ever encountered in his life. The elf— for clearly he is one— is blond, with his hair braided like a girl's, and a sassy, coy little look on his face. He's telling a story, and the way he _moves_ , the way his hands caress the air, the way his eyes sparkle with enjoyment, makes Carver's heart skip a beat.

_Oh no_ , he thinks faintly. _I think I might be gay._

Beth follows his gaze, then smirks. Leaning in close, she whispers, "yeah, that's Zevran. He does that. Probably the only dude I've met that made me consider trying out dicks. He has a very nice one. It's just— he's so damn pretty."

Carver coughs a few times. _Okay, off limits, got it,_ he notes, shaking his head a bit. _As if he wasn't already!_ Carver moves forward, calling out, "Owain! Hey, can I join you?"

"There is no rule forbidding it, Carver," the Tranquil replies after looking up.

Beth laughs. "He means 'do you mind if we join you' not if it's allowed," she clarifies.

"Ah. I see. No, I do not mind."

Lowering her voice, Carver's twin adds as they walk over, "Teddy is mute but can hear fine. They use they/them. Neria and Andrea are cool, just read any petitions Neria shoves at you before signing. They and Zev can translate for Teddy, I'm still learning. And Zev is gonna flirt. Enjoy, but he'll stop if you tell him to."

Carver plops his tray down, sticks his hand out, and introduces himself to Zev: "Hi, I'm Carver Amell."

The fair haired elf smiles lazily and takes the hand. Instead of shaking it, he leans forward and brushes his lips across the back of Carver's hand. "Charmed, no?" _Oh my. I had assumed Beth's twin must be as handsome as she is fetching but... Very nice._

Beth grins, waving at her friends as she watches. A trifle awkwardly, she signs, 'brother bad day, need heart sleep.'

All Carver can hear is the pounding of his heart in his ears. "Ch-charmed," he manages, in an awkward croak. He clears his throat, then pulls his hand back, blurting out, "so you're gay or just Orlesian?"

"I am Russian actually," Zevran replies, unphased. "And I do not like to limit my options in anything, least of all pleasure."

"Zevran is very difficult to label or categorize. Pansexual is the most accurate known label, as I have confirmed him partnering with males, females, bi-gendered, fluid gendered and agendered of all four races known to me," Owain offers placidly.

"Bisexuals can like enbies," argues Carver. "And gay can mean anything."

"A more general label is less accurate than a more restricted label," Owain explains. "Bisexual and pansexual are contested definitions."

"But I am pleasantly surprised you know your terminology," Zevran puts in. "Please, sit, join us, before we continue."

Carver sits, turning his desk a bit to make more of a triangle so he can see both the others. "My sister's a bi lesbian."

"She can see the appeal of a guy but much prefers curves and cunts," Beth explains rather lewdly. "I'd say she only dates women too, but she's never— oh hey. Can't say that anymore, she has a girlfriend finally. Almost forgot."

"Beth," Owain frowns at her chidingly. "We're at school. That word is not permitted."

"During _lunch_. No teachers. Teens are supposed to be rebels, it's our right."

"Some of us are about to eat!" protests Carver.

"Anyone in particular?" Zevran asks with a leer.

Carver coughs, violently, turning bright red. _I—!_

Bethany bursts out laughing. "Oh Maker, your face," she manages. "Tell you what, I'll let you guys decide, ah, diets without a sister hanging around. I'll go catch up with the girls. And Teddy? Need to ask about phrases like that," she notes to herself as she gets up.

"I'm not gay," he manages, though his voice is oddly strangled.

"Why limit yourself I say," Zevran says brightly, leaning forward while holding his chin in his hand. "Tell me about yourself."

"I— I'm Carver, I play soccer, I'm not allowed to join the Templar and all my friends hate me."

"I would be willing to label our interactions as friendship. I do not hate you," Owain says simply. "I am clumsy but will attempt soccer if you wish."

"Thanks," he replies bitterly. "Maybe you can replace Steve, who I got kicked off the team."

"Perhaps you might be better served with thoughts of a new topic," Zevran says deftly. "For instance, what music do you enjoy?"

"Classic rock and metal," he says quickly. "Do you listen to Slayer?"

"They are the ones that do Rain of Blood, no?" Zevran replies after a moment.

"Raining Blood," Owain corrects the Russian politely.

Carver nods. "Slipknot? Pantera? Black Sabbath?"

Zevran looks a bit blank but Owain nods. "Slipknot's Duality, Pantera's Walk and Black Sabbath's Disturbing the Priest are essential music listening."

"I assume I have heard all of those with you?" the elf asks with amusement.

Nodding again, Owain clears his throat. "I push my fingers into my eyes. It's the only thing that slowly stops the ache, but it's made of all the things I have to take. Jesus, it never ends, it works it's way inside," the Tranquil sings, his voice actually pretty good and full of inflection. Almost exactly the same as Corey Taylor's actually.

"Hey, that's pretty good," says Carver. "We should make a band."

"I had no idea you could sing like that," Zevran says with surprise.

Owain shrugs a little. "It has never come up." He looks over at Carver. "Do you play or sing?"

"Play. Guitar. So if Zev drums..."

Zevran opens his mouth, an impish look in his eyes, but Owain cuts him off. "I am unsure with sexual innuendo you have crafted but I believe Carver is referring to the musical instrument specifically."

The elf pouts but doesn't look bothered. "Alas no. Sax and some keyboard. But I'm very quick at learning kinesthetic skills and know musical theory."

"Keyboard can work," says Carver quickly. "And— did you pick sax just because it sounds like an innuendo?"

"Also because I am so very good with my mouth," Zevran agrees brightly.

"But not the flute?"

"I prefer jazz over classical," he replies with a shrug. "The... throaty sound of the sax appeals to me."

"I just figured, you know, long round things in your mouth."

Leaning in a little, Zevran smiles lazily at Carver. "Is that an offer, moy drug?"

Carver recoils. "No! I'm no fag!"

Zevran's eyes narrow. "Such a... charming reply."

"Yeah, well, bite me," Carver replies.

"And have you repeat your slur, this time directed at me personally? No thank you."

Carver scowls. "You're the one hitting on me. I'm not interested, piss off."

"Done," Zevran says simply, ignoring the clear evidence that Carver is outright lying about his interest. "All you had to do was ask. I am no cretin or thug to press a suit where unwelcomed. There was no need to be offensive."

Carver glances away, his face clearly saying "we'll see." But instead he just says, "sure. Anyway. Band."

"You are truly interested then?"

"Well, sure. Who wouldn't be?"

"The vast majority of the student body," Owain answers promptly. "While many might find the idea appealing, very few would be willing to actually work for the idea."

"I mean, how hard could it be, right? We already play instruments. We just have to do it together."

"This will be a learning experience then," Owain notes gravely.

* * *

And it is one; not just for Carver either. As he'd admitted, Zevran is only 'fair' on a keyboard, so there's some fine tuning to do there. Owain has zero ability to adjust his inflection to suit any improvisation or mistakes from the other two. And Carver has neglected his practices far too often of late thanks to focusing on soccer. All of that is before the idea of 'harmony' or even 'song selection' comes into play. An hour and a half later, they're annoyed and frustrated. Still...

"That was fucking awesome," Zevran says, sounding stunned. "That last bit there, that sounded— we sounded really damn good!"

"Fuck yeah it was!" It's a warm day, and they've gathered in the band room to practice; Carver's hair is plastered back with sweat, and he looks flushed, but thrilled.

_Shame you are not nearly as accepting as your sister._ "We should do that again," Zevran says grinning.

"No." The elf looks at Owain, intending to protest. "We must break for fifteen minutes to rehydrate and rest."

"Yeah, yeah, but once more first," argues Carver. "I'll forget how that riff went otherwise."

"I have been instructed to be firm in this regard," Owain says simply. After a moment, he crosses his arms and nods at Carver, eyes narrow and lips pursing strangely.

"Instructed by who?" demands Carver.

"Bethany Amell."

Zevran stares. "How? When?"

Owain frowns slightly, his awkward posing fading away. "She texted me. I did not know she had my number."

"Don't take orders from Beth, she's a _girl_. Girls don't understand about bands. That's why girl rockers are always so lame."

"Bethany is formidable," Owain protests.

"Nah, she's little. I can arm wrestle her if you want."

"She also controls our funding," Zevran says solemnly, though his grin makes it clear he's not actually worried. "Though I must admit I would enjoy watching such a contest."

"I'm rich too, you know. And I'm probably going to inherit my mother's company. So."

"Via the Student Council," Zevran clarifies.

"What does school have to do with it? We're an alt-rock numetal band?"

"Ah! I meant for drama club," Zevran clarifies. "And beyond her connections, she has a wicked temper and a masterful tongue."

Carver blanches. "Didn't want to know that part," he growls.

"I have witnessed this myself," Owain agrees.

"Maker's asshole!" swears Carver. "Sounds like Beth and I need to have a talk about _safeguarding her reputation_!"

"Her reputation is a valued one," Owain assures Carver.

Speaking rapidly, Zevran interrupts. "Her reputation about her _temper_. I suspect Owain is speaking of a particular incident wherein a contractor, hired to assist with stage direction, attempted to coerce one of the freshman into... much the very thing you were just worried about. Beth not only went at him with a stage prop sword but also verbally flayed him alive. Frankly, I suspect he would rather have been actually stabbed if it would have meant the attack was silent."

"...her temper." Carver's tone is flat, as he clues in. "Great. Good. Wonderful. Let's talk about Beth's temper and not her other qualities."

"How much skill she may or may not have in other things is for her to share as she decides," Zevran says firmly. "I am at ease with my own reputation but will have no, ah, truck yes? No truck with ruining another's."

"Come on, you had to know how that sounded— you did it on purpose. It's Beth's name you're slandering when you talk like that."

"Not at all— I talk about everyone that way. If I avoided doing so with her specifically, people would wonder what I was hiding," Zevran explains.

Carver blinks. "So by saying you should stop hitting on me..."

"Hitting on you and being suggestive in conversation is entirely different," Zevran assures him.

"You swear? The last thing my rep needs is people thinking I'm gay."

Zevran glares at him. "Oh the horror."

"Look, you have no fucking idea about my life, alright?"

"More than you know about mine, but that is not the point. I understand that you have... _fears_ about homosexuality, but would it be too much to ask that you not treat it as if it were a war crime?"

"Yes," he growls. "I have to— I _can't_ let anyone think I'm gay."

"Might I suggest a compromise?" Owain interjects. "Would it be possible for Caver to avoid using slurs or insults of a homophobic nature in exchange for Zevran doing his best to ensure people do not consider Carver to be interested in the male form."

"I... guess," mutters Carver, eyeing Zevran suspiciously.

Zevran considers this a moment, then nods slowly. "As you might have guessed, I have something of a reputation for both interest and skill. Perhaps we can make use of that; the three of us, next weekend, clubbing. I have often gone out with Owain, attempting to teach him. Wingmanning, if you will."

Carver winces. "Maybe not," he says, delicately. "I'm in some serious trouble since my birthday party went south."

"Ah," Zevran says with a wince. _That explains Beth's mood, perchance._ "Well, perhaps something else of that sort, should the chance arise."

"I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd love to pick up chicks," Carver adds.

"I had not realized you enjoyed lifting baby birds. Is that common in Kirkwall?" Owain asks.

"What? No. Chicks. You know. Girls. Women."

Owain turns to Zevran, who drops his control and bursts into laughter as he thumbs-ups the Tranquil. "Well done," the elf manages to gasp out.

"Thank you Zevran," Owain says, smiling faintly. "I have been practicing."

Carver groans. "Great. Wonderful. I guess we should take a break, then, and get some water, and maybe go do homework because I'm sure she's going to be on my case about that as soon as we walk out of here."

"Perhaps we can help? Owain has helped me with my English— my first tongue was Russian, English is my fourth— but I am rather good with math, if you like. I do not suppose you have any luck with chem or history?"

"Not really," admits Carver. "I kind of suck at school."

Zevran shrugs. "Then we are no worse off than before. And besides, a fresh perspective shall be welcome, het?"

Carver smiles. "Yeah. Okay. I will grab my books and meet you at the caf, we can eat and study together."

"Not a fan of the library?"

"Beth's going to make us eat anyway. But I guess we can use the library."

"Studying should not be done in the cafeteria," Owain says firmly. "That room is for eating, with socialization occurring as a background activity that should not interfere with the primary goal." Zevran gestures at him, grinning at Carver.

Carver raises his hands in surrender. "Fine, fine! We'll go to the library after we eat. I still gotta go get my books. Which dorm are you in? I'm in Wormwood."

"We're exiled to Backwater," Zevran says cheerfully. Actually called Blackwaters officially, Backwater is one of the oldest dorms and the furthest from any of the communal buildings. Most of the less media-appealing scholarship students are housed there. "So you will almost certainly return first."

"Alright, meet you at the Caf. I'll grab a table."

"We will be there to help you hold it," Owain says, bowing slightly as he finishing putting their instruments away.

* * *

When Carver opens the door to his dorm, he first notices the lights are on, along with the radio. _Louder than Alistair prefers— did I leave it on?_ Stepping into the room, he spots someone sitting at Alistair's desk. The door is already being shut by someone standing behind it before his brain realizes the person has short blond hair that's not light enough to be his roommate. "'bout fucking time," Samson snarls from behind Carver, causing Steve to turn around in the desk chair. "Been waiting for Maker-damned hours."

Carver swallows, paling a little. "Sorry," he says, his tone small, soft.

Samson shoves Carver, not an attack but harder than a friendly push. "Yeah, well, that and a clean record would get me a fucking promotion," the Templar recruit snaps. "Where the fuck were you?"

"Studying," he lies quickly, ignoring the guitar strapped to his back. He turns, then, sliding it off to rest against his bed.

"Bullshit." Despite Steve's clear disbelief, that gets dropped for a worse topic. "So my dad called today. Guess what he was just told about?"

Carver winces. "Sorry," he says again, head lowered, eyes on the floor.

"Stop _saying_ that," Samson snarls, punching Carver ungently on the shoulder.

Carver staggers back a bit, saying nothing, biting his lower lip hard.

"Not only did the school rip me one, so did my dad. Including cutting my stipend," Steve snaps. "So guess what? I need a hundred bucks. Now."

"Okay," he whispers, reaching for his wallet. "Here, you can borrow my card?"

Samson's eyes widen, then a cruel grin appears on his face for a second. "I've got a six hundred dollar fine," he says flatly. "Sorry, _you_ have a six hundred fine. Your party, your fuck-up."

"Okay," he says quietly. "My dad pays my card."

_Seriously? What kind of punkass, weakshit pus— oh. Oh! Ha! Of course!_ "Good," Samson grunts. "What's your limit?"

"Um. T-ten grand?"

"Pampered bitch," Samson mutters with disgust. "Fine. Dump your stuff, we're going."

_But I have to— nevermind. I'll text them._ "Okay," he whispers.

_This might just turn out to be better than getting promoted would have been. Just need to be careful. Go slow, keep it quiet. Which means no Alistair._ "Good. As least Bitch can learn, eh Carroll?"

The other man looks startled, then smirks. "Yeah. Shame you're not as smart as your sister. Still, plenty of shit we can make you do to pay us back instead of our homework."

_Bitch. Bitch. Bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch—_ the word rattles around Carver's mind, increasing with his heartbeat. It's such a feminine word— men aren't bitches, not real men, not men like Samson. Only women and pussies, which are basically women anyway. Almost he argues about his sister, but she's a girl, so it's normal to call her that, even if the word grates across his skin like a fingernail. _Bitch._

They keep calling him that for the rest of the night: _Bitch. Pussy. Girl_. Only the last when no-one else is looking; as he does their chores around the dorm, does their homework, does whatever they ask. _You wouldn't want anyone to find out you're a girl, would you?_ His dreams that night are troubled, and he wakes in a worse mood than he went to bed.

The next morning, exhausted, as he tries to shave in the little sink in their room, he nicks himself. The bright line of pain breaks something inside him, and the tears finally flow, fast and hot. _I'm not a girl,_ he tells himself. _I'm not._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver bailed on his new friends, abandoning them after band practice when he had been meant to be getting his things for a study session. Instead, he hung out with his older-new friends, the ones who know he's trans and have been blackmailing him for it ever since they found out. His previous friends, the boys on the soccer team, won't speak to him ever since his birthday party. With which group does he truly belong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: misgendering, bullies, high school dating drama

Carver ignored his cellphone the night before, not even checking his texts before bed. He knew what they'd say. But at breakfast, with a fresh band-aid on his chin, he can't avoid the obvious choice of where to sit: with Samson and Steve? Or with Zev and Owain?

So he ditches instead, ignoring breakfast to go hang out in the boy's bathroom, feet up so he doesn't show under the locked stall door if they come looking.

Thankfully, it's not Samson that comes after him, but Owain. The tranquil boy peers not just under the door but upward, spotting Carver before announcing his presence to Zevran, who leans against the door to block anyone from coming in as Owain unlocks the stall and opens the door.

"I must first apologize for intruding. I wish also to assure you that this intrusion is made from concern and inquiry, not because I am being a 'creeper' or a 'perv.' I apologize." Owain places his hands on opposite shoulders and bows nearly forty-five degrees. He holds it for a few seconds, then straightens. "That completed, I wish to know your status."

"...fine. My status is fine," mutters Carver, still sitting on the toilet. His pants are on, though he huddles with his arms across his chest, scowling through the open door at Owain.

"Please elaborate. Specifically, please detail mental, emotional and physical separately."

"I said I'm fine," he retorts. "Look, I'm sorry I bailed on you yesterday. When I got back to my dorm there was some shit I had to take care of and it took a lot longer than I thought it would. That's all."

"Why did you not inform us of this?" Owain presses, a faint frown forming a little too late for the expression to be anything but deliberate.

"The stuff involved some other guys," he says awkwardly, shifting a little. "I didn't want them to think I was rude."

"And so you did not mind _being_ rude to us?" Zevran puts in from the door.

"I, I just... I figured you'd understand," he mutters, a bit pointedly. "I thought you'd be cool about it."

"I cannot understand what I do not know about," Owain explains patiently.

"Look, these guys aren't as patient as you two are. If I had to be rude to someone better to be rude to people who are cool about it and will understand. But Ral— I mean, these guys, they're not very patient."

"It has been more than twelve hours. Why did you not contact us?"

Zevran nod, eyebrow raised, as he gestures to show his agreement of Owain's question.

"I was busy until bed, and then I was asleep, and I don't know what time you get up," he mutters, unconvincingly.

"It is now past breakfast," Zevran replies blandly.

"And we're talking now, see? It all worked out," Carver snaps in reply.

"Because _we_ tracked you down," Zevran counters, tone still even.

"I would have found you at lunch," Carver protests weakly. "If I didn't see you sooner. I was hiding from my other friends."

"Are you planning a party for them?" Owain asks out of nowhere.

"What? No."

"Acquiring a gift?"

"No," he says slower, frowning.

"Attempting to give distance after—"

"What Owain is trying to ask is 'why are you hiding from your 'friends'' but more politely than I would bother with," Zevran cuts in, knowing what Owain's next elimination is and not wanting the topic of awkward— or any kind of— sex to come up.

"Just, I don't know, do you ever have friends who want to hang out with you more than you want to hang out with them? I mean, it's not like I don't like them, or anything, just, they want to hang out _all the time_ and I have other shit to do."

"It sounds as if you need to be more direct about your boundaries," Zevran suggests, not liking the vibe Carver is giving, but not sure what the cause is.

"My what?" he asks, blinking.

"Boundaries," Owain repeats in a very clear, deliberate manner. "In this context, they refer to the rules and prohibitions you establish for yourself in regards to interpersonal relationships."

"Or in other words, shit you won't tolerate."

"...yeah, I guess I need to have some of those," Carver admits.

"Yes," Zevran says blandly. "That would be wise. For instance, such things could easily lead to you not having to hide in the bathroom to eat your breakfast."

"Yeah, yeah," he snaps. _I just met this guy, he wants to lecture me already?_ "Are we done with this interrogation or what?"

"Intervention," Owain suggests, unruffled by Carver's tone. "But I am sorry if our actions have caused offense. It was not my intent."

"Inter— like they do for drug addicts or whatever?" he growls. "I'm _fine_."

Owain bows his head, brow furrowing as he tries to trace back his misstep.

"There are more reasons than those for such," Zevran says smoothly. "We are certainly not accusing you of being an addict, I assure you. If naught else, I've heard the rumors of how draconian the soccer coach is about such things."

Carver makes a face. "I got thrown off the starting team," he mutters, tense. _And put in reserves, just this morning._

"Oh." Zevran coughs softly. "Well. It seems I'm having some foot with my breakfast this morning."

"...you couldn't have known," admits Carver. "I didn't tell anyone. It only just happened the other day."

"Nevertheless, I apologize for bringing up the matter and in so clumsy a manner." Zevran hesitates then, not entirely sure what step to take next. He's still not entirely okay with having been ditched without warning or apology, but... "Do, ah, would you perhaps be interested in trying again after class?"

"...I'd like that," says Carver softly, after a moment. "Um. If I get sucked into stuff again, I promise I'll text you this time."

"That would be greatly appreciated," Owain says, making sure to smile (but not too broadly, don't show teeth, use more than just your lips, don't pucker your lips, make eye contact but not constantly).

He gets it mostly right.

* * *

"What do you mean you have a date?"

It's Beth's day to eat in the theatre room with her craft friends, and already there's trouble. No sign of Carver; maybe he made up with his soccer friends? No, today it's Teddy causing a stir, signing furiously as Zevran translates aloud.

"I— I have a date," Andrea says, a light blush on her cheeks. "Samson asked me." She shakes her head a little. " _Samson_. Asked _me_. How could I not accept?" Her tone is defensive but pleased, clearly not seeing anything wrong with accepting a date with one of the top five boys of their year. Cullen has the most social standing and Alistair the most handsome (second in the school only to the oddly similar-looking Cailan, in most people's opinion) but Samson ranks well in both of those categories, with a hint of bad boy edge to him.

Teddy signs furiously, but stops before Zev translates, shaking their head and signing something else instead.

"Question me; then, I thought we all agreed we were going stag this year?"

"Well, I was but— Teddy, I'm taking vows next year. I'll never have a chance to go on a date like this again. Ever," Andrea says softly. "I've gotten offers before, sure, never for a dance or social event. I'm not pretty but I know my body is decent; I knew what 'pizza and whatever' meant. But Samson said a friend showed him the video from last years Summer Farewell play and he loved my portrayal of Glacu's Diana d'Luc."

"Moy drug, you _are_ pretty. And yes, I mean your face, not just your heart," Zevran replies, speaking for himself before translating this time.

"Gorgeous," Teddy adds via their hands and Zev. Sure, Andrea could have guessed that one, but it's best to be thorough if one is to translate. "Stunning, riveting— ow!" Judging by the lack of hand motions save to smack him, Zev was riffing there.

"Fine," Teddy adds. "I will have to get a date too. A better date."

"What's all this about?" Beth asks, finally stepping into view of everyone. She doesn't notice how Zevran's eyes had flicked to her before she'd spoken.

"Andrea's got a date to the homecoming, and Teddy's pissed about it," replies Mark, one of the other kids, whose usual lunchtime book is set aside in favor of the ongoing drama before him.

Andrea flushes, ducking her head as Beth sets her tray down next to Zevran. "Dates huh. And you're... competing?" Beth asks, giving Teddy a 'I know something is up with you' look.

Teddy's motions take on a jerky, staccato motion as she replies: "Yes. And I'm going to win."

"You think that will help?"

Teddy gives the most emphatic yes Beth's ever seen in her life. Not only their fist but their whole arm moves, and their scowl leaves no room for debate.

"Ooo-kay," Beth says, leaning back a little. _Wow. She is **pissed**! Shit. They. They are pissed. Crap_. "I'll help," Beth blurts out, prompted by a pang of guilt at the misgendering.

Teddy smiles, then, their white teeth contrasting her copper skin. The skin around their dark eyes remains tight, but their shoulders slump some as the first blush of anger leaves them. Beth needs no translation to understand the "thank you" they sign next.

"Well, I guess our first— and you're getting up?" Beth looks down at her lunch and sighs. _Why does this always happen?_ Grabbing half of her chicken sandwich, she pushes the tray towards Zevran. "Enjoy," she mutters before hurrying after Teddy.

Teddy heads out into the hallway, looking around as if to find a boyfriend just hanging around waiting to be discovered. "Teddy," Bell calls after her, swallowing a hasty mouthful of sandwich. _Needs more mustard_. "Wait up!"

Teddy turns, frowning a little as they let Beth catch up.

"What's your plan? Where are you going?"

Teddy shrugs a shoulder awkwardly, looking a little sheepish.

Beth huffs a little. "Didn't you learn from the Great Car Wash of Racial Justice Fiasco last year? Plans are key," she teases her friends. "Come one, let's find somewhere private to sit and text. Come up with a plan of romance."

Teddy nods again, smiling just a little. They lead Beth to a bench outside the library, pulling out their phone to text Beth quickly.

**TheAdorableTeddy** : I didn't know what to do. I just need to win. Who's better than Sampson?  
 **B😎stB😉th:** Samson, no 'p' Umm, well... Cullen or Alistair for our year. Cailin or Tony for the seniors. But only Alistair is single atm  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : Then we get Alistair. What do we bribe him with?

_A tennis ball, a belly rub and some cookies. Your belly or his._

**B😎stB😉th:** Hmmm. Besides normal guy stuff? We should get my brother. Hold on.

Going to the top of her Private Chat list, Beth quickly messages someone else.

**B😎stB😉th:** So, if I was trying to convince Alistair to go to Homecoming, what could I woo him with? Aside from a booty call.  
 **MyNameIsCarver:** Dunno.  
 **B😎stB😉th:** Ask him? Pleeeeese? :puppydog eyes:  
 **B😎stB😉th:** But don't just ask him.  
 **MyNameIsCarver:** He says yes. You're welcome.

Beth stares at her phone for a long moment.

**B😎stB😉th:** what  
 **MyNameIsCarver:** If you ask him out he'll say yes.  
 **B😎stB😉th:** Carver why  
 **MyNameIsCarver:** Lemmie alone, Beth, I did what you wanted.  
 **B😎stB😉th:** no. no you did not. I asked what it would take. because a friend wanted to ask him out. not me

"Oh my Maker, my brother is an idiot."

**TheAdorableTeddy:** Wat'd he do

**MyNameIsCarver:** Well who is it.  
 **B😎stB😉th:** Carver, are you alright? You're acting real weird

"I asked him what he thinks Alistair would like. In a girl, or in being asked out. Instead he asked if he'd go out with me. If Alistair would I mean," she replies, scowling, the flush of anger on her cheeks being just by a blush from what she'd implied.

**TheAdorableTeddy:** Wat. How?!

**MyNameIsCarver:** fine.  
 **B😎stB😉th:** your not acting fine  
 **B😎stB😉th:** *you're

"Peak boy brain."

**TheAdorableTeddy:** Ugh. Boys.

"Mood "

Carver puts his phone down, prodding glumly at his truffle mashed potatoes. _Stupid girls. Stupid games. Stupid homecoming._

"Soooooo," Alistair prods.

"I don't know. It's some dumb bullshit. A friend of hers wants to ask you but she won't tell me who."

"Oh." Alistair sags a little. "I thought it was B—" He coughs a little. "Anyway. A friend of hers? I wonder who? Any idea at all?"

Carver shrugs. "Her friends are great, though. I mean, it's probably someone cool."

"Isn't— I mean, isn't she... friends with..." Alistair leans in. "You know, the two Queens?" he finishes in a whisper.

"Ye-ah," admits Carver, glancing to where Samson and Cullen are deep in conversation. "But also a lot of other girls."

"Yeah, I guess. Still. Beth is super hot, you're sure she wasn't asking for herself?"

Carver shrugs a shoulder. _Stop telling me my twin is hot._

"So that's a maybe?" Alistair says hopefully.

"What're you two talking about?" Steve asks, cutting in to their conversation.

"One of my sister's friends wants to ask Al out," says Carver, his tone a little flat.

Samson looks away from Cullen, holding up a hand to get him to hold on for a moment. "Your sister," he repeats slowly. "And her friends..." He glances at Steve and Cullen, expression thoughtful.

"And she really didn't give even a single hint about which one?" Al asks again, pouting just a touch.

"No. She didn't. She just wanted to know how she should ask."

"Find out," Samson asks, then looks around before lowering his voice. "Find out which of her friends are still looking. You owe us some... VIP service."

Carver grimaces. "Okay," he whispers, his gut burning like he's swallowed an ember. "Okay."

**MyNameIsCarver:** I mean it. Who is it? I won't tell.  
 **B😎stB😉th:** You never answered me. And why do you need to know?  
 **MyNameIsCarver:** Because how depends on who. If you ask he'll say yes. Someone else might take more convincing.  
 **MyNameIsCarver:** Maybe tell me who all is still looking and I'll give you advice?  
 **B😎stB😉th:** Reasonable compromise. Ummm.  
 **B😎stB😉th:** Let's see. Shannon. Liselle. Teddy. Zevran. Seanna.  
 **B😎stB😉th:** Me, I guess. Owain.

"She, Shannon, Liselle, Teddy, and Seanna are all still looking," Carver reports, his voice emotionless.

"The fuck are Teddy and Seanna?" Steve asks, frowning. Samson shrugs, thinking. _Shannon is way out of reach; they're not dating but there's no way she's not going with Pentafag. So that leaves Beth and Liselle. Maybe the other two, if they're hot enough._

"Theodosia Joudain and Seanna Dennett."

Steve wrinkles his nose. "Isn't Seanna the crippled tomboy? On the trick riding team?"

"Hey, you shouldn't—"

"Shut it Ally," Steven cuts him off. "She can't even walk without a cane. Anyone on Theodosia?"

"Another crippled tomboy," says Carver, quietly. "She doesn't talk the first month of school, except to correct the teachers on her name. Teddy."

Samson nods suddenly, placing her now. "The Pokémon girl. Nice ass, plus not being able to talk is kind of a feature. You should go for it Ally-boy. She's your level." He looks back at Carver then. "Cullen, you have a date yet?" When he nods, Samson continues. "See if you can get Liselle for Carroll. If that doesn't pan out..." He smiles coldly at him. "Well, That just leaves Bethany."

The bits of Carver's gut around the burning ember turn ice cold. "Alright."

**MyNameIsCarver:** You know Steve doesn't have a date either. Al might go for Teddy or Lisenna if they asked. Otherwise maybe try a push-up bra. Tits are his thing.  
 **B😎stB😉th:** There's no way I'd hook Steve up with a friend.  
 **B😎stB😉th:** A certain haughty asp who won't stop talking shit about G maybe, but she's w/ Cullen.  
 **B😎stB😉th:** But make sure Al doesn't ask anyone out for a few days while I do a little wardrobe tweaking.  
 **MyNameIsCarver:** I'll see what I can do  
 **MyNameIsCarver:** The sooner the better  
 **MyNameIsCarver:** What's wrong with Steve?  
 **B😎stB😉th:** He's got a reputation in certain circles  
 **B😎stB😉th:** Pushy  
 **B😎stB😉th:** Cool. Try and hang out with Al for the day or so so I can track him down.  
 **MyNameIsCarver:** Hes' not so bad  
 **MyNameIsCarver:** it's just Homecoming  
 **B😎stB😉th:** Exactly

"Well?" Samson pushes.

"Al's a yes. Steve's a maybe."

**MyNameIsCarver:** Come on. Put in a good word? For me?

There's a longer pause before Beth replies this time.

**B😎stB😉th:** Carver, what's wrong?

"Seriously?" Alistair blurts out as Steve glares at Carver.

"Hang on."

**MyNameIsCarver:** I just need these guys to like me  
 **MyNameIsCarver:** If I pull this off I'm in  
 **B😎stB😉th:** So you want me to toss a friend to the wolves so you can be popular?  
 **B😎stB😉th:** Why do you even want to be friends with them?  
 **MyNameIsCarver:** Why do you hang out with the Queen Bitches?  
 **B😎stB😉th:** Shan's not a bitch. Cyndi isn't either, not really. Cold and no bullshit is all  
 **B😎stB😉th:** the asp isn't a friend. She's just around.  
 **B😎stB😉th:** look, I'll mention that Steve is still looking but no promises  
 **MyNameIsCarver:** thnx  
 **MyNameIsCarver:** it'd mean a lot

"She'll put in a good word for Steve."

"With who? I don't want the crip," Steve pushes. Samson rolls his eyes, not disagreeing with the opinion but despairing that his friend will ever learn that there's value in not _saying_ that sort of thing out loud.

"Just about everyone. Take your pick." Carver's tone is flat, empty, even as his fingers move across the keyboard to text his sister another thank-you, promises to meet up later. "We good?"

"We'll see." Carver's stomach does a barrel roll at Steve's smirk, but he decides to take his blessings where he can find them. _Good thing I'm hanging with Zev and Owain after school. Maybe I'll wander past soccer practice and see how they're doing on my way there..._

* * *

"Higher dammit! Lift your end up. Come on, higher!"

There's a loud grunt, followed by a groan, as a tall, lean-built young man with jet black hair and tanned skin is forced to go to one knee in order to keep the four foot long, six step high portable staircase from hitting the ground. On the other side of the wooden staircase, the second-string halfback yelps an apology as he struggles to, quite literally, keep up his end of the burden. "Maker's mercy, Davey, do you even lift?"

"I play soccer, not wrestling."

"Neither do I, pansy," Tony refutes the whined protest with a glare. Second child and only son of the main Pentaghast bloodline, the varsity halfback is one of the top three most popular— and richest, and most attractive— boys in the school. He's also the captain of the soccer team, which means the email Carver had gotten this morning telling him that 'due to recent lineup changes and damages to team spirit, we're redoing the entire roster. You're being bumped from second-string down to reserves, so skip the next few practices' had come from him. "Doesn't mean I can't _lift my end of these damn stairs_. Now come on, we're not even halfway to the gym and we got like five more pieces to move."

Carver shouldn't talk to him. He shouldn't interfere. He shouldn't even be here, skulking around like he's going to have practice with the rest of them, like he's still on the team instead of in the reserves. He should walk past and head to the library to study with the guys. He should...

"Oi, Tony!"

The stairs bobble as Tony starts to turn towards the voice instinctively. With a ripe curse, he just barely manages to catch the side of the stairs with his left leg, which gets another, slightly pained, curse. Carver can't hear what Davey says, but he can see his expression; Carver has seen the look of 'oh, it's _them_ , dammit, ugh' before after all.

_Well now I've done it. Fuck. What to say?_ Carver heads over, moving to lift the stairs off Tony's leg so he can get a better grip. _Dammit this is heavy!_ "Look, if you need a pair of hands that's not attached to a dumbass, you coulda said something. You know I'm free."

"Clearly not," Tony snaps, face red with exertion. "Whatever, just lift the damn thing; we need to get it to the gym." Davey glares at Carver, sullen and annoyed by the jab by someone he feels is now lower on the social pecking order.

"Right," he says, and he puts his focus into lifting, the physical exertion almost enough to keep his mind from buzzing with questions and regrets.

When they get it to the gym, he lowers it gently to the ground, less winded than the other two thanks to only having moved it half the distance. "Alright, now what?" he asks Tony.

Tony rubs his leg briefly, then turns to look at Carver for a long moment. "Now what, what?" he replies, then shakes his head before continuing. "No, you've done well before now, so I won't bullshit you." He pauses, then looks over at Daveys. "Take a walk," he suggests, a hint of the generations of nobility, of military service, that's bred into him seeping into the tone. The most junior of the three stiffens, wanting to protest the summary eviction, but accedes with a scowl. Turning back to Carver, Tony frowns. "You're bad for team morale right now."

Carver scowls. "Look, it was my birthday so I took the fall, but you gotta know it wasn't my fault. Who do you think wanted to drink, me or Raleigh Samson? Who do you think was doing drugs, me or Steve Carroll? Who do you think was driving, for that matter? You know I don't have my permit yet. How the fuck am _I_ bad for morale?"

Tony blows a lungful of air, then shrugs. "To be honest? I figured all that already, thanks. Doesn't matter though; Steve has more friends on the team than you do and _they_ buy his story. Not that it looks like you've put one out for yourself in the first place." He gives Carver a pointed look. "Have you even talked to any of the team? You've always been a bit standoffish, but this year? Fuck, this conversation right now is the first one I've heard of you having with any of us but Steve."

Carver looks away. "The next fucking day, there was no spot for me at the table. What was I meant to do? Force my way in where I already wasn't wanted? I was gonna talk to people at practice today but you made that choice for me too. When the fuck am I meant to defend myself?"

Tony shrugs again. "Not really my problem," he says bluntly. "But I mean, you had all weekend. Or all summer for that matter. I get you leave out of state, but how often did you call anyone? You walked off campus and fucking vanished. So yeah, if it comes down to you or Steve's friends— half my damn team— then I have to make the call that's best for the team."

"It's long fucking distance! I sent emails, I never got a reply..." He hates how lame it sounds even to himself. "Look, I worked my ass off all year being the team bitch so I could get this spot. I fucking earned it. And now you tell me because Steve is a lying fucking pothead, I'm out? That's fucking cold. I thought better of you, Tony."

"I've never made any secret that the team comes first for me. I want to go pro and so does half the rest of the team," Tony replies simply. "We can't do that if the team is shit because half of them hate you. You hating or resenting me for the rest of your life? Shame, sure, but I'll deal; it's not like we're close or anything. Me fucking over my best friends since preschool and ruining our chances at fulfilling our lifelong dream?" He spreads his hands wide, feeling his point rather made.

"What about _my_ dreams? Don't they matter?" Of course they don't. Who has ever cared about Carver's dreams? He takes another tactic immediately, not waiting for an answer: "And what about the truth?! You said you know Steve's a liar. Why not tell your buddies that? Won't they believe you if you're such good friends since preschool?"

"No, I said that I figured you'd taken the fall for the driving and some of it. Doesn't mean you didn't actually cause the trouble," Tony counters. "It _was_ your birthday, right? At a strip club? That you arranged for? And I know Steve tokes up, but he lost his fake id last year so he didn't get the beer; you did. Samson backed Steve up on that much of it all."

"But none of that's why Steve's off the team. It got me bumped down to second-string, and he woulda got the same except for the pot I didn't even know he had. It's his own damn fault he got kicked off the team. And besides, you look me in the eye and tell me you've never had a beer, and I'll call you a filthy liar."

Tony smirks. "Beer's piss water, I drink vodka, hard cider or nothing."

"So why the fuck is my beer worth kicking me off the team but Mr Vodka gets to go pro?"

"I've never been arrested while drunk for one."

"Get in a car with Raleigh Samson and you'll have all kinds of new fucking experiences," growls Carver with a glower not aimed at Tony.

Tony hesitates a moment, then asks, "did he really double check if the cop knew he was an elf?"

Carver snorts, chuckling darkly. "Yeah. Not two seconds after he said, shut up and let me handle it. Fat lot of good that did."

"Wow. I knew he could be..." Tony shakes his head, not wanting to add 'Samson is a soft-racist' to the current conversation. "Just wow. Moron."

"Yeah. My grandpa is an elf, did you know?" he asks, shrugging. "I guess that means my dad's mostly an elf. If I'd been talking I wouldn't have said anything that dumb. But I trusted him. I mean, he's a Templar Recruit, top of his class, and he's a Senior. If I can't trust him, who can I trust?" He gives Tony a meaningful glance.

"Yeah," Tony says, either not getting it or just stonewalling Carver. "Pretty neat about your grandfather," he offers.

"It turns out I can't trust Raleigh though. Can I trust you? Or are you like him, ready to fuck me over as soon as it's convenient?"

Tony heaves a sigh, looking upward for patience. "Carver, it's not about you," he finally says. "I can't put your happiness over the wellbeing of the entire team."

"But if you told them the truth, then you could have _both_."

" _No_ , if I told them the truth— which I don't know, given I wasn't _there_ — then I'd have half the team not buying it for whatever reason and the other half not caring and both halves being shirty and playing badly." Tony shakes his head. "I can't risk that. Look." He runs a hand through his hair, then nods sharply. "Give it a month or so. Let things blow over, keep your head down and just... I don't know, see if you can make peace with Steve. Get him to stop stirring things up. Things go back to normal and you can come back to practice, prove you still deserve your slot and shut any doubters up."

Carver groans. "Fine. Fucking... whatever. I'll suck Steve's dick until he shuts the fuck up," he grumbles. "But you'll regret this. I'm damn good and you know I make the team better by being here. Who are you going to run at midfield, McAllister? Pfft."

Tony winces, laughing ruefully. "You're not _wrong_ ," he mutters. "Well, sorta. I'm moving McAllister to right fullback and moving Jules to take over for you. You're faster off the mark nine out of ten, but he's not bad. Just as fast as you once he's moving and maybe a hair better with ball control. He'll manage."

"You said yourself, you'd have a better shot with a better team. And I'm worth having around. If I have to prove that a hundred times, I will."

He gives a decisive nod, then turns to go. "I'll see you around."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homecoming is fast approaching, and everyone is getting busy for it: dates, dresses, promotional videos for homecoming queen on TikTok, the works. Carver's still trying to mend his tarnished reputation, while attempting to befriend the Templar trainees and move up in the social ranks; Beth is already at the top in the coveted Cheer squad, but she's got to stay there with Florienne the poisonous viper coming after her.

Teddy sits on the edge of their bed, one knee up, one dangling, with both arms locked around the knee. They watch as Beth digs through their closet, looking through the dresses and button-downs inside. _Hmmm. No. No. No. Maybe. No. Maybe. No._ "Go ahead and strip," Beth calls out behind her as she digs. "Why do you have four flannel shirts? We live in the Keys."

Teddy doesn't bother explaining the reason— because flannel is sexy, because lesbians and lumberjacks and queerness— instead stripping off their top, revealing the sports bra they've been wearing lately. They shimmy out of their jeans, suddenly feeling exposed in boxers and a bra.

"I swear you have more dude clothes than—" Beth goes quiet a moment, stepping back to look at the clothing she's rifling through. _Ooooooh. I'm a dumbass._ Turning around, she looks at Teddy with a slight wince. "Okay, so, pretty sure I'm tasting foot right now. Teddy, are you... trans?"

Teddy lifts their hands to sign, then hesitates, lowering them again. _Uh. Good question._

"Hooboy," she says softly, moving over to the bed. "Wanna talk about it?" she offers gently. "One of my best friends from Kirkwall is trans. It's entirely cool if you are— or aren't. I'd like to help, if I can. If you want me to."

Teddy gives an exaggerated shrug. Finally, forcing words out through some of the anxiety, they add verbally, "I'm Teddy."

"Yep," Beth says firmly. "You are. Whatever else you decide about yourself, you're Teddy. Man, woman, some of both, lots of both... you're Teddy. That helps. I mean, it helped my friend a _lot_. Having their real name, the one that fits them."

Teddy nods, then, picking up the phone to text quickly:

**TheAdorableTeddy:** I don't really know  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** Sometimes I feel like a guy  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** But not always  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** it's confusing and i hate it  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** maybe im a tomboy

"I'm not an expert on gender," Beth admits. "I did a bunch of reading when I was ten-ish and first really found out about this sort of thing. And I try and read a bit now and then. But mostly I just know about, uh, the type my friend is. Anyway, I know there are people that are mixed. Like bisexual but with gender. Some boy, some girl."

**TheAdorableTeddy:** i guess?  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** i don't feel mixed  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** i just feel like me  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** i don't like my name but i like dresses and i like horses and i don't like barbies  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** does that make me a whatever?

"Hold on," Beth says, tabbing over to a web browser for a few moments. "Got it. Knew I'd seen this somewhere. Genderfluid, and bigender. Genderfluid are people that can feel more or less of one or both genders at any given time. Bigenders ae people that feel like both genders or parts of both genders but don't vary that much in how much they feel. And there's also trigender and pangender? Which are.... Ah. You can also be agender, which is neither male nor female. So trigender and pangender are people that feel some mix of boy, girl and neither. Any of those feel... you?"

**TheAdorableTeddy:** i mean i heard of fluid before but  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** like i don't wake up in the morning going, oh, im a boy today  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** like it's not like that at all  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** and i don't know how to have multiple genders  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** like what even is agender  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** a gender*  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** like what does gender feel like  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** how does one do gender  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** how do i even know  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** does Buzzfeed do a quiz for what gender you are?

"Tons of them. I mean, not all of them from Buzzfeed but yes. And they're all different. I've taken like fifty of them and gotten at least a dozen 'male' answers so yeah, not all that accurate. But..." Beth exhales slowly. "Okay. Want to try a quick test?"

Teddy nods, closing their eyes briefly in preparation.

"Teddy is a great friend. He's bright and clever. She's also really dependable. But most of all, they're just fun to be around."

Teddy blinks in confusion, waiting to be told the results.

"Did any of that bother you? Did any of it feel more, uh, acceptable than the other parts?"

**TheAdorableTeddy:** it feels weird to be called a he  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** nobody ever calls me he  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** but it still feels a bit weird to be called they  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** i like it tho  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** she feels normal  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** not like super right but normal  
 **TheAdorableTeddy:** ive been called she all my life tho

"Okay, so that probably means you're not _strongly_ gendered in any particular direction. Which is kind of lucky. My friend had some seriously strong dysphoria, like... almost 'rather die than keep being called the wrong pronoun' strong. So. Yay for that?" Beth offers a wan smile. "Did you like 'he' the same way as 'they' when I used it?"

**TheAdorableTeddy:** uh. maybe?

"Want me to try that out? Or do you want to keep going with they only for a bit?"

**TheAdorableTeddy:** they is fine i guess?

Beth reaches over to hug Teddy with one arm, her libido behaving for once and allowing it to just be supportive even with Teddy being half naked. "Hey, it's fine. It's really fine. Confusing and frustrating, I'm sure but it's fine. Okay?"

**TheAdorableTeddy:** right. lets just get me a dress and get me a date.

* * *

No sooner has the teacher said 'group work' than Alastair is scooting next to Carver, eagerly claiming him as his partner. Carver has to smile at the brunette; something about his big dopey grin, his sweet eyes, just lightens Carver's spirits to be around. He's so earnest, painfully so, the lad thinks, taking the worksheet and putting it between them on the table. _Both of us are shit at math though. We're gonna have a rough time with this algebra stuff._

"So then Scout just gave me this look, like 'I love you boss and I cherish our partnership, it's the most important, the most vital thing, in my life but I'm going to jump in this pool of slimy, muck filled water even though my leash is totally still wrapped around your wrist. Forgive me?' And of course I did," Alistair says with a fond sigh.

"I want a dog," sighs Carver. "Dogs are much better than cats."

"Why does the Maker hate me?" Betty asks sourly. Thanks to an odd number of students, the unpopular nerd had been assigned to work with the two boys. "How did you even get on that topic? What do _dogs_ have to do with _math_?"

Alistair flushes a little. "Nothing, I guess. Just— Well, just that the problem has 'dee' 'zero' 'nine' in it and nines are like 'gees' that are too tall and it just reminded me—"

"Stop talking. Preferably forever."

"Hey," says Carver, scowling. "Al's fine. Why don't you just do the worksheet yourself if you're so smart?"

"I have," Betty says flatly. "I'm done already. But we're being graded together so maybe you two could do a _little_ of the work? Ugh."

"Oh, what, you're already done?" says Carver, blinking. "What's the point me doing it then?"

She glares at him. "Group. Project. Not 'make the only one that gives a shit about her grades do all the work while the two morons jerk off in a corner' project."

"Shitty group project. it's just a worksheet. I bet the copier was broken."

Betty's eye twitches. "Yeah, well, so is this copier," she snaps, jabbing a thumb at her chest. "Do your own work for once, Amell."

"Fine, fine. Bitch." He grumbles, turning to Alistair. "How do we do the first one?"

Alistair stares at the worksheet, head cocking to the side. It barely takes any imagination whatsoever for Carver to picture an ear flopping over. "Umm. Well. I think we need to figure out what the sin does to the numbers first?" Betty snorts lightly and pulls out her phone.

"...sends them to the Black City? Write that, I bet we'll pass."

"It's pronounced 'sign' dumbasses," Betty mutters.

"What? But it's ess eye en. Sin."

"It's Latin."

"Math is hard," Alistair sighs mournfully as he pulls out his textbook. "So about homecoming," he says after a moment, the tenth time today.

"No, you don't have to rent a tux," says Carver instantly.

Betty snickers softly. "You're sure I don't?" Al asks, not seeming to notice the laugh.

"I'm sure. I'm wearing a button-down and slacks."

"I'm sure the two of you will look adorable together," Betty says sweetly, not looking up from her phone.

"Fuck you, we're not fags; he has a date."

"I do? Oh right. But she hasn't actually asked me yet," Alistair says, a hint of a whine in his voice. _I wish she would ask, this waiting is driving me nuts._

Betty snorts. "Of course he does," she says placidly. "Because the two of you are so well known for dating."

"Fuck you. I'll get a date. No problem. I'll ask Maribell."

Betty frowns. "Who the fuck is that?"

"She's new and she's beautiful."

"Do you mean Maribell Rutherford?" Alistair asks abruptly, eyes wide. "Cullen's second cousin?"

"Yeah, that's her," agrees Carver.

Alistair stares at Carver. "Beautiful? Carver, she's _gorgeous_! And you're going with her to Homecoming?"

Carver shifts a little. "Well, I haven't asked yet."

"You mean 'haven't gotten rejected' yet," Betty offers snidely.

"She was engaged to my brother for a little bit. She might say yes."

Betty slowly looks up. "Seriously?"

"Scout's honor."

"What? No, I mean, you're—" She rolls her eyes. "Whatever. Why should I even care?"

"Exactly. You just mind your own business, nosy nose."

"Maybe don't talk about things right in front of people you don't want to hear?"

"Maybe don't be such an asshole and people will be willing to talk to you," retorts Carver.

"Maybe be less of a loser and people will care what you think?"

"If you don't care why are you bugging me?"

"Because I'm bored and it's fun to mess with you."

"Perhaps if you're so bored, you'd like to do another worksheet?" the teacher asks, suddenly looming over the group. "Maybe this afternoon after classes?"

Carver winces. "Yessm," he mumbles.

* * *

By the time Carver finishes his detention and drops off his things, it's already into the dinner period for the main cafeteria. Not that he gets a chance to get anything, as he's waylaid by a royally pissed Steve followed by a sheepish Alistair and an amused Nick LeBlanc, another member of the soccer team. "What the fuck Amell?" Steve demands, grabbing the collar of Carver's shirt.

"Sorry," he says immediately.

"Maker curse you as the traitorous coward you are," Steve growls, shaking Carver.

"I didn't! What'd I do?" he protests, roused a bit by the shaking.

"Lied right to our damn faces. Liselle, your sister and the two cripples. Decided you were going to take the best of what's around for yourself, huh?"

"I— what?"

"Maribell," Steve spits in Carver's face. "Completely new to the school, stacked like a wet dream and as innocent as a kitten." He leans in. "The fuck did you even think you'd do with her? Like she'd react any different than the stripper?"

Carver's eyes widen as he wipes his cheek. "I— I didn't— I just said that to shut up Bitchy Betty, I don't even know if she has a date or not!"

"Really," Steve says flatly. "Then you wouldn't mind introducing me to her."

"N-no, of course not. I owe you, yeah?"

"Yeah, you do," Steve says, pushing Carver away from him. "What do you know about her?"

"She was engaged to my brother, but they broke up. She stayed with my mom this summer, and my mom got her enrolled here."

"He fuck her?"

Carver shrugs a shoulder. "Doubt it. She's really Catholic."

"Virgin?" Steve replies, sounding surprised. And pleased. "Perfect. Find out what kind of flowers or whatever she likes." _Some booze, some dancing, a little touch here and there and she'll be on my dick by the end of the night._

"Yeah, I'll text Beth, they're roomies."

"You better not fuck this up Carver. One way or another, I'm getting laid that night. Got it?"

Carver swallows, nods vigorously. "Okay. Yeah."

"Good." Steve smirks a little. "Feeling like dwarf food. Why don't you pop off and get a couple quarts of fried rice and cashew shrimp for Nick and I. Actually. Grab some... Al, what kind of dwarf food do you like?" The other soccer player gives his ex-teammate a confused look, but doesn't say anything about the clear act of extortion in front of him. Not his problem, not really. 

The blond looks at Steve and Carver hesitantly, then offers, "kung-pow chicken?"

"There we go. Some of that and a handful of apps. Maybe some wantons. Drop it off my room." Steve smirks at Carver, daring him to refuse or even try to argue.

All Carver can say is, "yes, sir." He ducks his head, lowers his eyes, and scoots.

* * *

Beth really didn't like Florienne's smile when she picked up the footage from the baking fundraiser from the AV club that afternoon, nor her needling comments about 'running it over smartly now.' So instead of taking it right to the homecoming party planning committee, she instead calls up Cyndi and Shannon and offers to watch it with them before they hand it in. "It got done early, after all, so why not?"

Cyndi and Shan lived on campus, as most of the students did, but not in the dorms like Beth; instead, they lived in the Student President's House: the smallest of the townhouses the faculty lived in, but occupied instead by the pair of them as Student Council President and Cheer Captain. It hardly mattered which was which anymore; the two had been neck and neck for the two roles their junior year, despite being only juniors, and now as seniors they had agreed to live together. After all, who needed all the space of a two-bedroom condo as a single high schooler?

Beth knocks on the door, and Cyndi opens it, smiling beneath her mask. "Beth! Come in. Shan's making fat-free popcorn. Not that I can eat it, it's a 2-day, so only five hundred calories for me and I already used half of them at lunch."

Beth rolls her eyes as she follows Cyndi inside the house. "La, Cyndi, you really stress yourself out _far_ too much over that sort of thing," she tries, rather more directly on the subject than she normally is. By the time she finishes speaking, they've gone the five feet from the door to the small living room slash study, allowing Cyndi to face Beth again as she sits on the back of the sofa. Beth shrugs a little at the look on what is visible of her face.

"What? It's true; you look _great_ , you don't need to worry about picking up a pound or two. Or even ten." Raising her voice, she adds so Shannon, audibly singing to herself in the kitchen just off the living room, can hear, "you have, hands down, the best 'slender and elegant' build in the entire school. Shan wins the 'stacked and packed' category and for the last of the fem-bod trinity, I'd probably go with Sister Dani for 'hottie sporty.' So yeah, seriously," Beth holds up the bread-loaf sized plastic container she's brought with her, "have some grapes, alright?" _Please take this well, please take this well, please take this well._ She'd realized what she'd been saying before she'd finished, but not nearly soon enough to have broken off gracefully so she'd just charged forward and hoped Cyndi doesn't take any of it poorly.

"La!" says Cyndi, breathlessly. "That's very kind of you, sweetheart, but trust me, I know what I look like in the mirror."

Leaning against the door to the living room, Shannon looks at Beth with bright eyes filled with amusement and curiosity both. "Stacked _and_ packed? What's the difference?"

Blushing a little, Beth busies herself with opening the container she'd brought. "Umm. Stacked up top and packed in the back? I mean, you're not, uh, the _biggest_ in the school for either, but there's more to it than just size and you got—" _OhmyMaker shut up!_ "Well, you probably have a mirror too," she says, voice a little too cheery. "So, uh, you know."

"Those squats did you good," teases Cyndi. "You definitely have earned the designation."

Laughing, Shannon blows a kiss at Cyndi before stepping away from the wall. _Cyndi's evidently feeling spicy today. Almost makes me regret telling Beth she could totes come over right now. Although..._ She poses, slanting her right hip forward slightly, and putting a hand on the other hip. Then she arches her back and looks down at herself as if to check out the quality of her breasts. She's wearing a well worn band t-shirt and, based on the outline that forms, a sports bra, which means her bosom is not on best display but nevertheless shows well. Humming, she then twists at the waist to try and peek at her gym shorts covered butt.

"Yeah, I'm hot af," she announces, then bursts into giggles. _Beth absolutely just checked me out. Like thirsty checked me out. In-ter-esting~_

Coughing slightly, Beth flushes. "Uh, yeah. Also hi. And, uh, I brought some grapes?" _Holy crap, those shorts! Andraste, are those Cyndi's or something? I can tell she's wearing a thong! I wonder if— no, what the fuck Beth?_ Mentally slapping herself, she pushes the idea of asking to use the bathroom in order to sneak in a private moment. "Green ones. Seedless?" _Stop talking about the grapes!_

"Two calories each," quips Cyndi, pulling her gaze away from Shannon's ass to go plop on the couch.

"Pssh, grapes are like, ninety percent water," Shannon says as she ducks back into the kitchen to get her bowl of popcorn. "We can just work out together an extra twenty minutes or so tonight." Shannon pops a kernel in her mouth, then makes a face. _Ugh. Maker, I'd blow a farmer straight from the field for a hot, greasy double cheeseburger with bacon and fried mushrooms right now._ Pouting now, she instead heads for the spice rack and liberally coats the popcorn with a salt and chili powder blend, wanting _some_ kind of flavor to her snack.

Beth shifts her weight a few times, awkwardly trying to figure out how, well, do anything here. _Should I just sit down? Where? Next to Cyndi? On the recliner? Not the floor, surely; especially given I'm wearing a low cut blouse. Unless... I should sit on the floor so they can see..._ "So!" _Now what??!?_ "Homecoming." _Okay, progress, good, now let's go for more than one word at a time, yeah?_ "I mean, the fund raising video that I brought over. Like I said I would doooo it's on a thumb drive and I have a cord that'll let me use my phone to play it on your TV. If, uh, if you have a HDMI port?"

"Great," Cyndi chirps. "Go ahead and plug it in." She stretches out her arm as Shan returns from the kitchen, settling into the couch beside her. Cyndi wraps her arm around Shan, sighing contentedly as she feels the familiar, comfortable weight settle in beside her.

"Oh good, I hadn't even really thought about if you'd have the right ports until I was basically on your doorstep. Glad it worked out though," she rambles as she heads over to the TV. _Okay, wow, that's a real high end TV. Def theirs, not the schools. Do NOT break it, Beth! Just calm the fuck down. Ugh. You've hung out with Shan here before, it's fine. Granted, those were all right after class. Which somehow makes it feel totes different? Huh. That's kinda weird. Also kinda weird having Cyndi here too. Feels more like I'm intruding, which is kinda dumb 'cause Cyndi's really cool too, we've hung out together too though only in groups or for cheer specifically and ugh! Dammit, where is the— oh. What kind of TV has a slide panel to hide the ports?_

Taking advantage of Beth working on the TV, Shannon looks over at Cyndi and waggles her eyebrows. 'Stacked and packed,' she mouths, smirking. When Cyndi just rolls her eyes, Shannon pouts dramatically. For about two second, which is when she notices Beth leaning around the TV, skirt clad bum pointed at them and legs bare to well above her knees. Grinning, she gestures at the display then cocks her head to the side as if asking Cyndi for her thoughts.

Cyndi cocks her head as well, enjoying the view. She gives a definitive nod. _Beth's probably the only one who gives Shan a run for her money. Bet dollars to donuts she'll be homecoming queen her senior year. If she can drop a few pounds._

Grin broadening— and turning impish— Shannon points at Beth, then herself with her left hand. Before Cyndi can decide if she's being so silly as to ask which Cyndi prefers, Shannon taps Cyndi on the breast bone with the same hand and whispers into her ear, "one plus one plus one equals ultimate calorie burning program?"

Cyndi rolls her eyes, mouthing "Straight" as she gestures to Beth once more.

Shannon lifts her nose in the air with mock disdain of such a quitter's answer. _Pul-lease. If Beth's not at least bi-curious, I'll give up make-up for a week. She hides it well most of the time, but I know I've seen her check out girls when they're particularly appealing. And it's not proof or anything, but her never having done more than a one-off date with a single guy since she's been here? Kinda strange for a girl as popular, attractive and healthy as her._ She then points at Cyndi. "Boiling." Herself. "Water." Beth. "Spaghetti."

_Spaghetti is only straight until you get it wet_ , recalls Cyndi, covering a laugh with one hand despite her mask, which doesn't cover her mouth.

Shannon grins broadly, pleased to actually get a laugh— even a silent one— out of her too often too serious best friend. "Did you need a hand?" she calls to Beth, turning back to ogling the younger woman's ass shamelessly.

"Nope! Nope, I'm good. Just about got it," Beth replies quickly, sounding nervously embarrassed at taking so long. "Juuuuust about.... Got it!" Wriggling back from around the TV, she steps back and regards the TV with a stern look. "Should be findable now, if you know how to use the directory in the source part of the menu?"

Cyndi picks up the remote, and a few moments later, the video appears on the television.

Or well.

It's a video, to be sure. Rather than the cooking video they expected, however, it seems to feature a very nice, very prominent, very naked ass. The hips are a bit on the square side, but the ass is well toned with muscle. As the figure turns slightly, they can see a rather large, half-erect penis come into view. A man, then.

Cyndi hesitates with her finger over the button, glancing to Shannon as if silently asking, do I pause or pretend I can't figure out how to?

Beth, caught entirely off-guard by the sight, can't hide the vague disgust she feels at the sight. _Eww! What the fuck? Why is— oh. Oh shit. This must be, uh, hrrrm._ "I, uh, I think," Beth laughs, the sound fake and awkward, as she lifts her head to stare at the ceiling. "I think you must have accidentally clicked over to the, uh, premium satellite channels? Must be part of a bundle or something."

"Huh?" Shannon blinks, her gaze shifting from Beth to the TV, which prompts a snort of laughter. "Oh my! That's, ah, that's an interesting angle for the fundraiser?" _Not a bad looking dick, if a bit unkempt. At least trim it, bucko, if you won't shave it clean like you probably expect from your date. Men._

"Um. I don't think I... no, it still says it's your thumb driv—- is that your brother?!"

For as the man heads back from the camera, showing more of the scene, his head comes into view in profile. He's got a fetching young man tied up on the bed, a stranger, definitely of age but probably still in college. A brunet like himself, bound hands together over his head and feet spread apart and tied to something out of view.

"What." Beth's gaze dips down for a moment to look at the screen again. _Yep, that's Garrett_ , she notes distantly, strangely less bothered by the dick now that it's her brother's dick. _That makes it a non-sexual dick... somehow. What the fuck? When did he make a porno? Why did he make a porno? And how did- wait, did Cyndi say— how did this get on—_ **"Florianne."**

"As you see here, this little beauty's been tied up and muzzled. Now, what I'd like to show you is some fun reactions you can get outta this little feller. Warning, do not try this at home!" Why is Garrett doing a bad Australian accent?

Cyndi finally manages to pause the video, giggling out loud. "Wow. That's. Wow. I uh. I was blessed this holy eventide," she manages.

Beth growls, neck hunched and fists clenched tightly into fists. She is... far less amused than Cyndi is. "Ah, maybe you should..." Shannon gestures at the remote, wincing at the sounds Beth is making. _Sweet Bride, she looks fit to burst. Or kill someone, possibly by bursting. Making them burst instead? Something anyway._ "La, that was, ah, a surprise. But no harm done, right Cyn?"

"Oh, I mean, ah, that was... I'm sorry, Beth, it's just... The Crocodile Hunter??!" Cyndi bursts into peals of fresh laughter.

Beth huffs loudly. _Yeah, he used to talk like that to Carver and me, to be silly. Kinda ruined now._ "Yeah, yeah," she mutters, reaching out to turn the TV manually. And fails to find the buttons, instead just awkwardly fumbling around the edges of the TV with increasing embarrassment. "Where's— where's the power button?"

Reaching over to press the button on the remote, Shannon flashes an uncertain look at Cyndi. _Well, this is souring our afternoon real nicely. Never seen Beth this upset before, it's kinda weird. I didn't think the teasing she's gotten over her brother's escapades was bothering her much at all before now._ "Right, so... That was, ah, weird, but..." She flounders then as it suddenly clicks that, "wait, was that another man in the bed?" She sounds far more shocked than appalled or disdainful, but the question still gets a flinch from Beth.

Cyndi looks at her blankly for a moment, then winces. "I don't know what you're talking about. I clearly saw a woman," she offers after a moment, more to hopefully ease Beth's mind than convince anyone.

"What? No, it was—" Shannon shuts up when Cyndi gives her a look.

"Honestly, I don't know why you lot make such a big fuss about such things. Orlais is Andrastaen too, but in Orlais, if it can vote, you can fuck it. But of course, I would do my duty and report the infraction to a Sister if I were aware of any illegal pornography in my home. Good thing that was perfectly legal— heterosexual porn is legal, even in the prudish, boring UP, isn't it?" she adds, sotto voice, dropping the too-bright too-foreign tone she'd been taking on.

"Yes," replies Shannon, slowly, belatedly, catching up to Cyndi's aims.

"Perfectly legal pornography between consenting adults of legal age. Legally."

Beth slumps forward a little, heart pounding. _Fuuuuuck, I didn't even think of— fucking fuck fuck._ Silently, she pushes back behind the TV and starts fiddling with her phone. She's at it for a minute, maybe a little less, when she quietly says, "thanks" just loud enough for the other two to hear.

"Think nothing of it," Shannon says quickly, squeezing Cyndi's hand. _Quick thinking! Brilliant Cyn! Alright, now to ease things past this..._ "Not like any of us have never seen that before, right?" _Shit! How does that help, brain?!_ "I mean, in porn. In general! Not your brother's— I've seen porn with dicks in it is all I'm saying. It's fine. Right Cyndi? Porn with dicks, pssh, no big deal!"

"Right, exactly. That is definitely my preferred type of porn. The kind with.... dicks." The word sounds strange in her mouth, and she grimaces.

Shannon slowly turns to look at Cyndi, gaping. 'What the fuck?' she mouths at her best friend.

She flinches, then rolls her eyes. "Oh alright, I don't watch porn, but if I did!"

Shannon scoffs silently, free hand resting on her hip as she gives Cyndi a 'bitch, please, who you thinking you fooling with that shit' look.

"Beth? Are you alright? I won't tell, I swear."

"What?" Beth twists as if to look at them but, well, there's a TV in the way. After another moment, she straightens back up. "Sorry, had to text, uh, a friend, about... homework? Did you ask me something?" She actually looks at them this time, though her gaze is somewhere just off to the side of them. She looks flushed too, though some of that might be from having to position herself so awkwardly to reach her phone where it's plugged into the back of the TV.

"Right..." Shannon says slowly, glancing at Cyndi. "We were... just... remarking about how porn with, umm, perfectly normal and legal combinations of people are, well, perfectly normal and legal? And that..."

"I don't have any brothers," says Cyndi, "so I'm not certain how I'd feel in your position, but you look... unwell. Please, sit. Shan, maybe get her some water? Or, here, have some of the grapes?"

"Mortified and furious," Beth offers darkly, then sinks into herself. "Sorry. About— about all of this. Ugh. She just did this to fuck with me, make me look bad in front of you two but it could _ruin_ Garrett's life if it— Or Black City, _Carver's_ life! If people think that they're similar or something... He's already having trouble over his stupid birthday—" She cuts herself off, wincing. _Shit. Why would you bring that up!?_

"Come here," Cyndi commands. "Take a deep breath."

Beth is halfway to the sofa before she really even notices her feet moving. _Woah. If she used that voice during cheer practice, we'd be state champions every year like snap. Or wearing silk gauze wraps, lounging at her feet and calling her Mistress like a good harem girl would— Okay! Cutting that thought off right now! And maybe saving it for tonight._

Shannon scoots over, leaving a spot between her and Cyndi, though it's a bit cramped on the sofa for all three women. After only a brief hesitation, encouraged by Shannon's kind smile, Beth almost gingerly sits down, silent but taking long, slow breaths.

Cyndi wraps her arm around Beth, holding her gently. "You're safe," she says quietly. "It's alright. Neither of us are going to use this against you. Alright? It's safe."

Shannon mirrors the gesture, laying her head against Beth's as well. "Our word on it," Shannon agrees, feeling just fit to burst with pride and affection for Cyndi. _Not two years ago she'd have never thought to offer this kind of comfort or assurance to any but me. Oh how far you've come, my heart, how much you've healed from the twisted spider's lair you grew up in. Fucking Game._

Beth had tensed briefly at the first touches, but had almost instantly melted against them afterwards. "...thank you," she whispers, tears in her eyes and her voice both. "Thank you."

"Don't get yourself twisted over Florienne. She thinks she understands how The Game is played, but her movements are clumsy, her attempts paltry. She is not half as clever as she believes herself. If she cheered like she schemed, she'd never have made it onto the team." Cyndi offers a grim smile, wishing more of her expression showed beneath her mask yet unwilling to remove it.

"Game?" Bethany asks, sniffling as discreetly as she can managed smooshed between the two seniors. "Oh, you mean, uh, isn't that what politics and..?"

"And court drama, spying inter-house intrigue and, in modern day, high level corporate dealmaking," Shannon finishes with a sneer. "Sorry, that wasn't at you. Just..." She trails off, gaze flicking across Beth to look at Lucynda Blacquin of the Old Woods Blacquins.

"As I've said time and time again, it isn't as though you aren't also affianced."

Shannon scoffs, face setting into a scowl. Not a fetching pout, Beth observes with a strange, detached fascination, but a real scowl. "And as I've explained, it's not at all the same. I was introduced to the son of one of my father's partners and encouraged to grow close. There's pressure, certainly, but I'm not legally obligated to marry him, nor would I be disowned if I refused." _If I had more reason for doing so than a preference for someone else anyway. Especially someone who would have no real value to bring to my marriage._ "And that's not the only reason I have to dislike the Game."

"I'm not _legally_ obligated to marry Theodmon either," Cyndi protests. "It's only the Game. I will lose enough face that my family would be forced to disown me were I to back out without reason. So it's a race to see if I can catch him in some face-losing exercise before the wedding, which is set a tasteful six months after graduation. Of course, he'll be doing all manner of missteps— the real question will be if he's good enough for me to allow myself to be ensnared or if I will take my chances on the next lover."

"Exactly," Shannon declares stoutly, as if Cyndi had offered stunning proof in support of her position. "There's no agreements made as yet between Richard Van Markham and myself," she glances briefly at Beth, trying to judge what effect the names being dropped are having on her, given that she and Cyndi don't share this information around, "be it legal, contract or even just social. I've been very careful to ensure that, something my mother and his uncle have been very supportive of." _Granted, his uncle is doing so because my marrying his nephew would place Richard well above his own son in the family pecking order, but still._ "If I got engaged to someone tomorrow, then there'd be no blowback, reputation or otherwise, from the matter. Well, as long as it wasn't to Tony."

"Huh?" Beth looks almost abashed by her wordless question, as if she's unsure if she should be interrupting at all. _Holy shit. Theodmon? Theodmon Olocaryn? As in Olocaryn Wines? I mean, she probably means Theodmon the Third, not Second, but still, holy shit. Kings and presidents have to bid for the bi-yearly Elite Reserves stock. Mythal fucking the Maker, they only sell five bottles of the stuff and they easily net two or three million every time._ Her mind flicks back to her and Carver trying to order a bottle of wine for their mother's birthday when they were ten; wanting to get the 'bestest, nicest wine ever' they'd been dumbfounded to find that bottles of wine can cost six figures. _And Van Markam? Richard Van Markam? **Prince** Richard? Gah!_

Shannon shrugs a little, gracefully interrupting Beth's noise in the most dignified way possible. "The Pentaghasts and Van Markams are allies, but also rivals. Bitterly friendly ones. I've most liked the description of them as siblings; constantly competing and squabbling with each other but ruthlessly united if challenged by outsiders. If I turned Richard down for Tony, they'd take it poorly."

"It's not as dire as it sounds. He expressed an interest and my father— Ugh, explanations of The Game always sound so trite." Cyndi pouts a little. "He expressed an interest. My father returned said interest. I did not indicate disinterest. Therefore, we are, in a manner of speaking, engaged. Until or unless I can find something objectionable. But he's rich enough for daddy, and he's handsome enough, so I will probably allow myself to become ensnared."

"I'm in this picture and I don't like it," Beth mutters, thinking about more than one 'casual introduction to a nice young man' her mother and grandparents have spring on her. _But like, dialed up to eleven._

Shannon raises an eyebrow, gratefully taking the distraction from an argument she's had with Cyndi dozens of times before without any real success on either side. "I hadn't realized Kirkwall went in for arranged marriages of any sort."

Wrinkling her nose, Beth lets her head fall back against the— Cyndi's shoulder. She tenses a little, worried she'd crossed a line, but tries to play it cool by answering. "Umm, Kirkwall not so much. The Amells? I mean, we're first generation there, sorta. My dad isn't a local and the Amell side of my family— me and my siblings included— are all dual citizens. My grandparents in particular are pretty UP at heart, even if the my grandfather was born in Kirkwall and so was his dad."

"And they're old money," notes Cyndi, with an air of someone struggling to recall how a foreign class system works. "So that means you're likely to be attached to someone soonish. Within a year or so. You're a junior, yes? So in the next year."

"Maybe," Beth hedges. "My dad is, uh, new money, and he's really, really against that sort of thing. But..." She trails off, not wanting to share _that_ much of her family drama. "It's a contested issue," she finally says delicately. "But... I am, uh, I guess looking around? Just to be safe. I mean, just to know my options and such, right?"

"You could do worse than Tony Penteghast, if you can catch his eye during a game. Maybe wear your skirt a little higher up your hips, highlight those toned thighs. And drop that summer weight, of course— no offense."

Beth snorts a little, relaxing when Cyndi doesn't comment about her new position. _Maker, there's maybe ten boys in the entire school that wouldn't take a kick from Tony right in the balls to be in my place right now._ "What summer weight? I haven't moved up or down more than five pounds since my tits stopped growing."

"What."

Looking a little smug, Beth smiles over at Shannon. "Yeah, just luck and good genetics, I guess. Well, I mean, I do exercise plenty. Not as much as my twin, sure, but I do fifteen of yoga before and after sleeping everyday, plus an hour of cardio Monday and Thursday. And cheer practice obvs."

"Bitch," Shannon says sweetly.

"Really? You were, what, an eight when we got our uniforms? I had sworn you were at most a six last spring."

Beth looks embarrassed, blushing, "Okay, fine, technically they're not done growing," she mutters. "I wear compression bras, otherwise they, umm, well— I mean look at them!" She presses a hand to her chest, just under her breasts. Unfortunately for her ego, she's so caught up in her rant she misses how eagerly Shannon complies with her order. "They get in the way enough as they are. And not just with people perving either; I took the eight this year because I had it tailored right after and it's easier to bring in the bottom than to expand the bustline."

Cyndi looks sadly down at her own, rather more flat, chest. "I can't imagine the hardship you must suffer," she says, a little too exaggeratedly to be real. "Should I touch them for luck with my own?"

"Yes please."

There's a pause, as both Shannon and Beth realize they both actually did, in fact, just say that out loud. In unison.

"Double the luck," she teases, and slides the hand that's around Beth to gently stroke Shannon's tit with one finger, her other hand coming up to do the same with Beth. "I appreciate your selflessness."

_Ooooh. I was voting for you to grope Beth but this is even better._ "La, with this much luck at your fingertips, you'll be a B cup in no time," she teases her friend, voice a trifle breathless.

Beth is silent, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted as she just... _feels_ a woman's touch on her breasts for the first time. In truth, making out with Zevran had been more sexual and more pleasurable both, but for some reason, this feels more... _something_. Advanced? Certainly more lesbian, given Zevran is male.

_Well well well,_ the more Orlesian part of Cyndi's brain notes. _Looks like I'm not the only one with a secret. That could be useful. Or I'll take it to my grave because Beth's my friend,_ Shannon's best friend realizes. _Drat._

"So," she says, pulling her hands back. "Do we think we need to hack Florienne's AmellBook to find the real video or..?"

Beth continues to stare into space for a second or two longer, enough time for Shannon to exchange a 'oh my, isn't this interesting' look with Cyndi, before she starts. "Umm, what? I— sorry, I was—" She laughs, nervous and shrill. "Wow, didn't expect you to— Guess I should have know better than to think you wouldn't, umm, take on my dare?" she offers weakly, trying to play it off. "Everyone knows Cyndi Cool Bitch Blacquin doesn't back down from a challenge."

Laughing much more naturally, Shannon leans forward and scoots of the sofa. She doesn't even get fully upright before she lowers herself back down, this time draping herself across the laps of both of the other girls. "Oh la, Beth! Cyndi is _Orlesian_ , and I've been her friend since before we could read! There's no body shyness in this house; we're all girls here after all, and it's not as if we've anything the others do not." She grins impishly. "Besides, there's no harm in a little... flirting practice."

"Hmph! I'd say you two girls definitely have something I lack," teases Cyndi, patting what passes for breasts on her thin frame. "Don't tell me you've never been groped before, Bethany Amell? Surely with a body like that, you get all the action you could wish for?"

Beth shakes her head, blushing at both the question and Shannon's new position. _Oh Qun and Cunts, her stomach looks so soft and smooth and hoo boy. I am so glad I don't have a dick because Shannon would be pushed right off my lap._ "No, not... Well, okay, once, but— Fucking Timmy O'Dell, in sixth grade. He came up behind me, smacked my ass and when I spun around, grabbed a tit." She scowls, rubbing at her right tit in sympathy for her past self. "Left a damn bruise for days. Not as long as his bruise lasted though," she adds with a smirk. "He must not have realized Carver was sitting down, just out of sight. I wonder if he ended up getting fake teeth or just left the gap?"

"It must be nice, having brothers," sighs Cyndi. "I always had to do my own punching."

"Oh I do punching too," Beth says brightly. "I went through a phase," _where I did a lot of boy things to support Carver trying them,_ "where I was trying to— Well, I guess it was a tomboy phase basically." _It's nice having someone else do the hitting for you though. Brothers for the win!_ "But no, no groping of any good kind. Not much kissing either. I mean, there's been a brief peck or two at the end of one-off dates, but those were all pretty meh. Aside from some practice make-outs with—" She breaks off, her blush returning at incandescent levels.

Her struggle isn't helped by the low, throaty laugh coming from Shannon, nor the sight of the knowing smile framed by golden hair spilling across Cyndi's lap. "That sounds like it was some really good _practice_."

"Oh, who hasn't had a wonderful kissing practice partner?" teases Cyndi. "It's very common in Orlais. We want to be well experienced before we go to our bridal beds."

"Mmmh," Shannon agrees with a giggle, closing her eyes and sighing, "Mardo." Beth's curious look gets only an eyeroll from Cyndi, visible through the mask only due to their close proximity on the sofa, which leaves it for Shannon to finally add, "one of my cousin's friends. I haven't seen him in years, he's, hmmm, a sophomore at uni by now I think. 'twas only the twice, but it was very helpful in seeing how the touch and taste of a man would be different than my normal practice partner." She's opened her eyes by the time she finishes, so she gets to see the flash of understanding appear on Beth's face. _I bet if I pulled her shirt down, her blush would go right down onto her tits. Maybe not all of them, not sure she has that much blood to spare!_

"I've never kissed an Orlesian man, but I've had a few stolen kisses here and there at school. Maybe more, after Homecoming," she teases.

_More than kisses,_ Shannon thinks to herself, smirking. _Though I wonder if Beth caught—_

"An Orlesian man?" Beth repeats, giving Cyndi a pointed look. "That's rather specific."

"I doubt my fellows will see UP men as competition," she says, with a shrug. "They do not play The Game at all."

Beth grins, slowly adjusting to the idea of having such... a scandalously intimate gossip session with her two seniors. "So does that mean you've kissed UP men? Or women?" _Why did I ADD THAT!?!_

"As I said, a few stolen kisses," she says quickly. "Of course it would be illegal to share such with women, but men, yes."

Beth's eyes widen a little. "Wait, illegal illegal? I thought you just meant— I mean, even for non-UP citizens?" _Maker's cock, I didn't realize it was so serious! I need to figure out how to learn the details of all that._

"It's not illegal, exactly, but it is against school rules, and the Sisters have en loco legal guardianship during the school year for emergency matters, so they can have you sent to a Circle to be rehabilitated, as they've managed to successfully argue in the past that such... deviancy is a health concern," Shannon clarifies quietly. "Pornography or corrupting an underaged citizen can lead to actual time in jail, yes, especially since Cyndi is already of age. Well, technically, you'd be held in federal care until such time as they deem you fit for governing yourself properly, but prison is prison, no matter the name."

"It isn't worth the risk," Cyndi warns Beth sternly. _If you can do anything else, be with anyone else or be alone, if you can stand not to do it, it isn't worth the risk._ "You'll have your whole adult life in Kirkwall to do as you like. No sense risking it all now."

"Oh."

Shannon winces, twisting in place so she's facing towards instead of just up at Beth. "Hey, it's okay," she says softly. "No-one knows or is accusing you of anything just because you know what the penalties are now. That, uh, that was less comforting than I meant it to be. I just mean that you're not in any danger, nothings changed really, okay?"

"Exactly," says Cyndi, putting a hand on Beth's shoulder. "Now, come on. Let's find a romcom on pay-per-view and relax some."

Shannon hesitates, both not wanting to budge and also... "Ugh, I hate to delay that," she says, mostly sincerely, "but you got distracted before answering Cyndi's question. About whether you need help dealing with the, ah, with the... porn?"

Swallowing, Beth shakes her head. "No, it's... I texted my uncle. He'll fix it," she says quietly. _He promised. Though I'm not going to ask how, that's for sure._

"Ah, that's good," says Cyndi, a little envious. _I don't have any uncles, but if I did, a favor like this would have to be part of a move in The Game._

"Yeah," Shannon agrees, relaxing, then frowning as she realizes that means she has to get up off them so they can get the video working right.

Beth smiles, eyes fixing on a memory. "Yeah," she echoes. "Uncle Varric is really great, especially for things like this. He's..." She bites her lip, then offers some trust. "He's not actually my uncle, not blood or anything. Shirén actually, an expat. But he's, uh, he's really close to the family. My, uh, Garrett especially? Like _close_?" _Just gonna skip the part where he was Dad's friend first, she decides._

_Uncle Varric the Shirén— as in, Varric Thedas of StoneSure? That's a powerful uncle,_ Cyndi notes, nodding. "Yes, I can imagine. He's rumored to be on par with your father as far as genius, but his lends itself more toward logistics and planning while your father is more of an inventor."

While Cyndi is focusing on the hints and networking, Shannon is blushing. "Close like..?" she asks a touch breathlessly, eyes bright with a desire to hear such salacious gossip. Especially about this topic. _If she means what I think she means, then that's pretty solid evidence that Beth would be... supportive about certain things._

"Close like," Beth confirms, though she doesn't come out and directly say that they're dating. _It's weird, being reminded that people just like, 'know' my dad and Varric. Kinda neat but weird._ "And yeah, Varric is probably the smartest person I know. I mean, my dad and sister are super brilliant but it's like— I guess I'd say that Varric knows more in the whole but they know way, way more about their thing? So I guess they're all kinda the same or whatever, but he's always impressed me more 'cause he seems to know something about everything." She shrugs. "But yeah, Varric is totally on the ball. He'll handle the video for sure." A slight pause, then she adds awkwardly. "Oh. Crap. I, uh, I should probably warn you both he's probably gonna look into the both of you just to be safe? But he won't do anything."

"That's... good," says Cyndi slowly. _Hopefully she is correct in that he won't do anything with the information. I've been careful online, but careful only goes so far._

Biting her lip as she tries very hard to not picture the recently if briefly seen Garrett sharing a passionate embrace with a more nerdy looking version of Henry Golding from Crazy Rich Asians, Shannon just offers a vaguely agreeable hum. Beth relaxes at the positive to neutral responses, wiggling a little so she can face Cyndi a little more directly. "Seriously, he's just super protective and kinda, uh, well, honestly? He's paranoid. But in a sane way! Blackened, he's more likely to discreetly slip you a tip-off about someone messing with you or whatever than to do anything to mess with you himself; he knows you two are friends of mine. He can't not, given how often this summer I gushed about Shan— urk!"

"Only Shannon, not myself?" teases Cyndi. "What must I do to earn your affections, little Beth?" She reaches over to gently stroke the side of Beth's face, a gesture a little more intimate than their friendship truly merits.

"That's a good start," Beth says breathlessly, leaning into the touch instinctively. Shannon snaps out of her daydream to focus on what's happening just above her. gaze avid. Hidden from Beth by their positions on the sofa, she reaches with her right arm towards Cyndi's calf. Expression carefully kept innocent but attentive, she lightly traces her fingers across her friend's soft skin. She knows better, of course, knows she shouldn't push or encourage this, but it's so damn hot.

Cyndi cups Beth's cheek, running her thumb over it a few times. "I'll have to remember that," she says, in a low, almost husky voice. "But for now... movie?"

"Whassa movie?" Beth asks, sounding dazed and, well, clearly aroused. Shannon lets off her teasing to instead press a hand to her mouth, holding in a laugh. _Well! Seems like our spaghetti is more like, umm, curly fries. Whatever. Beth is totally into girls, for sure. I have to hand it to her though, I'd wondered before today, but it was more in a 'that'd be hot' sort of way. She's pretty good at keeping it hidden._ Despite the blonde's efforts however, a giggle does slip out, and the noise is enough to snap Beth out of her daze. Not all the way, but sufficient to allow her to realize what's going on.

The mortification, on the other hand, is more than enough to act as ice water on her libido. "I-mean-yes-of-course-we-should-watch a movie and then probably watch the fundraiser skit afterwards though you can watch that together later if you prefer that's fine too." She managed to add something resembling pauses between her words after the initial burst of word vomit, but it's still very much a babble.

Cyndi giggles, pulling her hand away. "Right! Let's get to it."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's homecoming! Everyone's pairing up, hoping to get lucky. Beth's taking Zevran; Shannon and Cyndi are taking Cailin and Tony, while Andrea's going with Samson and Meribell with Steve.

The week passes, then the next. On Homecoming day, as is traditional, more than half of the feminine student body skips the second half of the day to get ready. Those with connections— or lack of concern for detentions— make their way into town to go to spas or salons while most camp out in the various bathrooms on campus. Beth, while not willing to abuse her Amell name, does happily use her and Teddy's in with the drama club to make use of the costume department, including the make-up room and private baths there. That side of things complete, the pair and Maribell make their way back to Beth's room in heavy bathrobes among dozens of other girls doing the same to finish getting ready.

"I still can't believe you're going with _Steve Carroll_. Promise me you won't leave the dancehall without me," Beth demands the moment they enter the room. _I also can't believe you didn't mention you had a date until yesterday. Or that I forgot that Steve's actual name is Stefan. Should have asked more when I couldn't place who she meant._

Teddy nods enthusiastically, holding up their cellphone as if to demand Maribell's number.

Blushing rather deeply at their concern— and about walking down the halls of her school in clothing designed for private use, no matter that it covers more than a Sister's habit— Maribell offers them both a smile. "I don't understand why you're both so concerned, but it's very kind of you both." As she speaks, the southern belle almost absently signs out her phone number to Teddy.

Teddy starts a group chat at once, typing furiously: "cuz men are dchbgs."

"Wait, when did you learn to sign?" Beth demands, distracted.

"What? Oh, I didn't realize— I used to volunteer at a veteran's retirement home and a lot of them were deaf," Maribell explains, pulling out her phone. "Dech...bigs? What? Men are what?"

Teddy signs something Beth can recognize only as a very, very rude sign. They then unsling the duffel onto Beth's bed, pulling out their pressed skirt and button-down vest as well as a brush and a bunch of hair ties, including a flower clip that matches the ruby shirt quite well.

Beth starts to say something, then pauses to look at Teddy. "Taking fashion tips from a certain enby gemstone?" Glancing at Maribell, she adds, "it's text speech for douchebag."

"Beth!" Looking mortified, Maribell covers her mouth.

Teddy snickers, grinning at Beth. Moving back to the phone, they type, "split an Uber?" before adding, "& protecc ur drink"

_What's an Uber?_ Rather than asking, again, for something that it's clear someone her age should know to be explained, Maribell googles it. "Protect my drink from what?"

"People spiking it," Beth explains. "Roofies?"

Teddy grabs Beth's water glass off the nightstand, then puts it back down, covering it with one hand as they glance to Beth, gesturing with the other as though talking.

"Why would someone want to drug me? To... embarrass me?"

Beth winces a little, exchanging a glance with Teddy as she moves over to take Maribell's hand. "Has... has anyone ever talked to you about date rape?"

"Rape bad," Teddy signs. Given the context of the word, and the way they mouth the word along with the sign, it's clear what they mean.

"Of course it's bad," Maribell exclaims, face pale. "What's— what's date rape? Is that just— when it happens on a date?"

"No. Well. Date rape is non-violent rape. Fucking someone that's too drunk or stoned to stop you for instance. Or even just insisting on sex even after the other person says no. Not forcing them aggressively, but rather pressing and pressing until they're worn down and surrender rather than continue struggling," Beth says grimly, remembering when her big brother had sat her and Carver down for this talk.

Teddy glances over at Beth, signing rapidly, though they force themselves to slow down after a moment, especially as they have to fingerspell some: "p-r-e-s-s-u-r-e isn't rape, rape is rape, p-r-e-s-s-u-r-e is bad too, men are d-o-u-c-h-e-b-a-g-s."

"Unless the other person gives an honest and uncoerced 'yes' it's rape," Beth insists stoutly.

Teddy shakes their head, but turns away, going to grab the brush with a one-shouldered shrug.

Beth scowls a little but lets it go as well. "Anyway. Date rape is why you have to guard your drink. And avoid going off alone with strangers or even just guys. There's like... six men in my entire life I'd trust going somewhere secluded with and four of them are family. And not even all of my family." Maribell stares at the pair, mouth agape.

Teddy turns back to sign, "Don't leave drink alone."

"Right," Beth says after a moment to parse that. "If you lose track of your drink, even for a few seconds, dump it. Get fresh."

"Is this really so— so— serious a concern? The two of you act like this might happen at the party. I thought it was just going to be our fellow students," the noblewoman protests.

Teddy nods vigorously, then signs, "Four girls last year. P-r-o-m," they add, fingerspelling the word.

Maribell gapes at Teddy. "But this is a _nice_ school." She says 'nice.' She means 'rich.'

Teddy nods again, adds, "Only four."

"None of them were violent of course," Beth says bitterly. "Donna, from cheer, was one. Her boyfriend switched her to vodka cocktails without telling her. She woke up in a hotel room, naked and... used. He claims she came onto him but she'd always been really firm about not wanting to go all the way with him before then."

Teddy nods again, just as hard as before. They add, via sign, "Boys don't get it. They act like if we're good we're not next."

Maribell slowly sinks down onto the bed. "I... I feel sick," she whimpers. Beth sighs a little and sits down next to her.

Teddy hesitates, then signs, "You're probably not next?"

"Sorry about, uh, dropping all this on you. Most girls get this talk ages ago," Beth says softly, rubbing her roommate's back. "And Teddy's right, odds are way against you getting into this kind of trouble. Besides, we'll look after you, right Teddy?"

Teddy nods again, signing, "We'll be with you all night."

"It's a teamwork thing. We look after you, you look after us," Beth explains. "We don't let each other out of our sight, we watch each other's drinks, go to the bathroom together and at the end of the night, we'll get an Uber together to come back to our room. Teddy can crash here even, if they want. Or we'll walk them to their dorm, then come here together."

Teddy nods agreement, adding, "Floor is good."

"You can double up with me," Beth says absently, more focused on Maribell. "Your virtue is safe with me, promise."

Teddy blushes ever so slightly, though they realize what Beth meant before replying.

"It'll be fine," Maribell says weakly, clearly trying to convince herself.

Beth nods firmly. "Right. We'll look after each other and come home after having a great time. I have a stash of fudge, we can indulge and gossip a bit before bed."

Teddy perks up at "fudge" and nods. For comedic effect, they lick their lips, rubbing their stomach, and sign "Skip the dance"

"Teddy's a total slut for chocolate," Beth stage-whispers to Maribell. "Especially fudge from Gellavani's Kitchen."

Maribell's eyes widen and she turns to face Beth. "What kind?" she demands almost aggressively.

"Uh. Peanut butter ripple, basic milk, maple walnut vanilla and Andraste's Sins?" Beth has to fight back a whimper at the look of lust on Maribell's face. _Holy shit, her virtue might be in more danger at the afterparty than the dance itself if she keeps looking at me like that. Well, in my direction anyway._

Teddy laughs, their voice revealed to Maribell for the first time: a rich, deep voice for a girl, their laugh full and wicked. They sign, "B-e-t-h is the best."

"I gather you found Gellavani's while you were in Kirkwall?" Beth asks with a grin.

Maribell nods, a dreamy look in her eyes. "I can't imagine anything laying sweeter on my tongue," she sighs, completely missing Beth's expression.

Teddy laughs again, signing, "I can name one thing."

Beth quickly tries to mask the horniness in her eyes as Maribell refocuses on the two of them. "Sorry, what was that?"

"Something more sweet," Teddy signs, then sticks out her tongue, waggling it lasciviously.

Maribell blushes faintly, though she's not entirely sure why she's reacting that way. "Umm. Some... kind of candy?" she hazards awkwardly, already knowing it's not.

Teddy laughs again, signing to Beth, "She's fun."

Beth glares at Teddy, an ember of worry catching in her gut. _Does she know? How? When? What should I do? Do... do I need to do anything? At least warn her about— about what Shan and Cyndi told me?_ "I told you she was great," Beth manages. Seeing Maribell still looking confused despite her bashful pleasure at the compliments, Beth adds, "Teddy's being lewd. Funny, but lewd." _And the way she did it... that was eating out, not a blow job. Does she... like fem bodies? Wait, shit. They. Maker, Beth, stop being an asshole and remember._

"L-lewd?" Her voice is a bit of a squeak, but she can't disguise the note of interest, a delighted, scandalous yearning to go past the boundaries that have always defined her life.

Teddy makes a spade shape with two thumbs and two pointer fingers, then runs their tongue up it, licking toward the point, where they swirl their tongue briefly. Small wonder what that sign is.

_Is that some kind of ice cream sandwich or something? Wait, no, Beth said it was lew—_ "That's a vulva!"

Beth bursts into wild laughter despite her best efforts, flopping over onto the bed next to her roommate. "Vu-vu-vu—"

Teddy breaks into giggles as well, plopping onto Beth's bed. After a moment they show the other girls the sign for vulva: a spade, this time point down with all of both hands, and then a brief motion to indicate the flat bits of the hand as the lips.

"Umm. That's..." Maribell flushes from cheek to shoulders, biting her lip. "I didn't... oh this is very inappropriate. But—" She fidgets a little. "Is it really that sweet?" she whispers. "You know... that, there."

Teddy shrugs.

_Damn. I would have bet that they..._ "Well, we could find out easily enough," Beth's mouth notes without asking. _What did I just say?_

Maribell gapes at Beth silently, mouth slack. As does Teddy, though they seem, ah... Interested.

Looking mortified, Beth hurries to try and explain. Well, lie. "I meant on ourselves. Because we're all female. I mean have vulvas. So we could taste ourselves. You know, jill off and taste it. Privately. Andraste still my tongue," she finishes in a whimper.

Teddy lifts their hands to sign, then lowers them; instead, they reach for the phone, texting into the group chat, "We could fool around after homecoming. Lots of people get laid after homecoming."

"That's a sin," Maribell protests with a gasp.

"Only to Catholics," Beth replies after a moment, still blushing. "I mean, others too I guess, but it's only hardcore Andrastians that say that being gay is a sin. But, uh, we'd need to be really careful. Even just talking about it; evidently homosexual acts are completely forbidden by the school. Like expulsion level forbidden." She bites her lip, giving Teddy a curious look, and pushes on before the mood sours. "Have you... fooled around with anyone before?"

Teddy shakes their head, fingerspelling out "p-o-r-n-h-u-b".

"Pornhub?" Beth wrinkles her nose. "There's way better for porn online. I like—"

"Porn?!"

Beth rolls her eyes a little. "Bells, you're acting like you've never rubbed one out before." She pauses at the look on Maribell's face. "What, seriously? _Never_?"

"Sister Nalia said it would make me infertile. And could make me go blind or worse," Maribell whispers, looking deeply conflicted. She's clearly uncomfortable at the topic and yet... _This is so fascinating. They seem to know so much more about... this... than me._

Teddy shakes their head emphatically, then taps their eyes, as if to say, I can still see.

"Ditto," Beth says with a grin. "If masturbating makes you go blind, then it takes more than..." She tilts her head to the side. "Let's see... like four thousand times?"

Teddy gives an appreciative whistle as they text, "Maybe we have a lesson in masturbation?"

"Four thousand times?" Maribell squeaks, her blush flaring back to crimson.

Beth shrugs a little, looking amused, pleased and embarrassed in equal measure. "Once a day basically for almost a decade? I, uh, started a bit early, I got my first period when I was ten and started getting horny around the same time. My sister gave me a really awkward explanation and a porn mag and I took it from there. Anyway. Masturbating is perfectly normal and actually good for your health. Stress relief if nothing else." She glances at Teddy, biting her lip. "I would be up for giving Bells a little... demonstration," she agrees tentatively. "For educational purposes? I mean, this is a school and all, so it's completely different than doing it just, uh, just for funsies?"

"After homecoming," texts Teddy, nodding firmly. "We have to get dressed now."

"R-right. Dresses. Clothing. Clothing is good," Maribell stammers. _Are they... Are they both lesbians? Sister Nalia said that was a sin but... she said a lot of things were sins. She would have caned me raw for a half dozen things I've done this summer alone. Even just walking back here in my bathrobe would have gotten a few strokes. But Beth was right, it's more coverage than most dresses. So why not? I'm so confused. But also..._ She glances at Teddy, then Beth, her eyes lingering on their exposed legs and throats. Her eyes widen more when Beth slips off her robe to leave her in just underthings. Swallowing, her eyes get dragged to Teddy as the other follows suit.

_Oh. Oh wow. Those are— oh wow. Am I lesbian? Oh dear._

* * *

Carver paces in front of the entrance to the hotel, pretending to smoke a cigarette he's not even lit. _I could just.... not go in_ , he reasons. _Would have been better to not get an Uber in the first place if I was going to do that, but I have the money for a second Uber, to get home at the end of the night. I haven't seen anyone yet; running a little behind will do that. I bet you Steve and Raleigh and Cullen are already inside trying to get their girls drunk and I don't want to be part of that. I could just fake sick. Or I bet if I walk a few blocks there'll be a drugstore and I could get ipecac and be sick. Then I don't even have to lie. I could just... say I was too ill to go to homecoming._

He pauses, looking up and through the doors to where the ballroom doors are clearly visible. Inside, he knows, the theme is Roaring 20s: gold and black streamers, flapper dresses, mocktails that will be spiked when the adults backs are turned until they're more potent than the actual drinks they're imitating. His deep blue vest matches his twin's deep blue gown perfectly, despite his not having a date. _At least I won't let anyone down when I bail,_ he tells himself. _At least nobody's expecting me to put out tonight._

"Guess who!" a voice demands brightly from behind him as his eyes are covered by soft, familiar hands, ones he's known all his life and could describe a thousand times better and easier than his own. The soft, full breasts pressing against his back to allow the young woman to reach his face are less familiar but certainly not unknown to him. Perfume's new though. Nice, not too strong, reminding him of the gardens at home. The real gardens, the ones far from the house where Leandra can't be bothered to visit so the gardeners are truly able to ply their trade.

_Not that I'd mind putting out for breasts like those,_ he thinks for just a moment before banishing the thought. "Beth," he sighs, smiling a little. _Shit._ The smile fades. _Now she's seen me, now I'll have to go inside._

"Aww, you guessed," she says dramatically, uncovering his eyes but continuing to lean against him. "Ummm, warm," she murmurs. rubbing her cheek against his back. _People here complain about the heat but Kirkwall is even warmer and I hate being cold. Ugh, it's gotten be below fifteen out tonight!_

"You know, I did suggest you wear a coat," an amused, Russian accent voice chimes in from nearby, chuckling when Beth hisses softly in reply.

Carver turns his head, planting a kiss on her cheek. _I still don't think Zev is good enough for her, but I guess they can go to homecoming together. But they better not 'go to homecoming' together!_ He growls a little at the thought, pulling away so he can turn to scowl at Zev.

Zevran offers him a polite, even friendly smile in reply, as he bows slightly. "Carver, you clean up well," he compliments the other man in a heteronormatively-approved fashion in an attempt to not offend him. _And look more like Beth's date than I, amusingly_. "Running late as well?"

Linking her arms with her twin, Beth wrinkles her nose and scoffs. "We're not late, Zev," she scolds him. "The dancing doesn't start for another forty-five minutes at least." She shivers a little, pressing closer to Carver instinctively. _Okay, maybe I should have at least grabbed a wrap or something._ Glancing down at herself, she smirks. _Totally worth it though, I look fucking awesome. Or maybe it should be awesomely fuckable? Heh, that's not bad, I should share that with Zev later._

"Just getting some air. It's crowded inside," Carver admits, hoping that's the truth as he hasn't actually been inside.

Beth wrinkles her nose. "This early? You feeling okay?" she asks, sounding concerned. Pulling her arm out of his, she moves in front of him and reaches up to press a hand against his forehead.

She's clearly not intending to do so, but her position and the way she's stretching makes it impossible for him to not notice just how generous an expanse of the soft, creamy skin of her bosom he can see. Their mother would have fainted dead— or exploded in screeching rage— if she'd seen Beth wearing this dress. Granted, he seen at least a dozen or more girls in dresses just as revealing since he's been lurking out front. Some even more so. But those girls aren't his sister. And they're especially not his sister wearing that dress for _Zevran Aranai._ "Beth... you sure you don't need a shawl or something?" he asks in a low voice.

"I _did_ offer," Zevran chimes in, sounding smug at being supported on the matter.

Beth scowls, rolling her eyes as she tosses a dirty look over her shoulder at him. "Hey, what is this, gang up on Beth day? Besides, are you really complaining about me needing to cuddle up to you during the walk over?"

Grinning, Zevran bows to her, hand twirling to make it extra fancy and silly. "Touché, moye serdtse, touché."

"Beth..." Carver begins, but sighs. _She knows_ , he grumbles to himself. _She knows better than to put out for a guy like him. Come Monday, nothing will have changed and we'll be friends and start a band._ "Let's go inside."

That gets a frown, strangely enough. "Hey, what's wrong?" she asks, then shakes her head. "Hey Zev, can you, uh..."

"Scout the hotel out so I can guide you right to the dancehall without you looking lost?"

"Uh— oh, yeah, thanks, that's perfect," she says gratefully, eyes never leaving her twin as the Russian walks away whistling.

"It's just.... him? Really?" asks Carver, quietly. "It's Homecoming. You know what he's after, right? And he's the sort to tell all his friends about it afterward."

"After? What— oh," Beth's eyes go wide as what Carver's implying clicks. "What? No, not—" She steps back into to hug Carver. "Thank you, for looking out for me," she murmurs, cheek against his chest. "But Zev is safe."

"Look, what, because he's gay? Because he's not actually gay, he's pansexual, and that's not—"

"I know," Beth says quietly, tilting her head back a little so she can smile up at him. "But no, that's not why. He's safe because he's Zev. I mean, even if I did fuck him— which I'm not going to, relax," she says firmly, trying very hard not to giggle at how he'd instantly started to whine. "But even if I did, he wouldn't spread it around or do anything I didn't want to happen. I mean, you've hung out with him, has he ever actually _said_ he's fucked anyone specifically? Plenty of innuendo, and so. Much. Flirting. But no locker-room talk, right?"

"...I mean, I made it pretty clear I didn't want to hear it," he grumbles, hating that that somehow still feels like a point in the man's favor. "Look, just be careful, alright? You know the kind of stuff that can happen. Not everyone's who you think they are."

"You're telling me?" Beth snorts, tightening her hug briefly before stepping back. "And yeah, I'll be careful. Even if Zev's my date and I trust him, that doesn't mean that," she hesitates briefly, but chickens out last second, "all the other people there are trustworthy and won't try something." _Zevran really is safe though; how many girls has he helped deal with pushy boyfriends or the like? And I know he's been with like half the drama club but I've never heard a single detail of any of it from him. Well, aside from Mellisa's Fuckfest Weekend but she ordered him to share details with us. Can't entirely blame her either, given wow, how many people can say they had lost their virginity during a two-day long party at a beach house with one bed and only four attendees? He's sure never let on about what we got up to that once when..._ "Anyway. Walk me inside, like old times?"

Carver's face softens, and his voice is oddly tender as he replies, "Always."

* * *

The ballroom is decorated in more than just a few streamers, though there are metallic gold and black balloons on either side of the entryway outside the ballroom to mark where the party is. The ballroom has a wooden dance floor and a professional DJ setup at one end of it, with tables to either side; the tables are high off the ground with barstools at them, intended for sitting with a drink rather than a meal. Each has a black velvet tablecloth, with a centerpiece in tasteful gold tinsel and black crepe. Against the near wall is the drinks table: the ever-present ever-toxic punch, along with several individual servings of Bees Knees mocktails for those wanting something a little more refined. There is also a photo booth set up for capturing those special moments, and best of all, the restrooms are way down the hall, so one could reasonably slip off for a little alone time in an adjacent conference room without looking too suspicious to the teachers.

Teddy had tugged their date, Alistair, toward the punch line as soon as they arrived; too shy to start the dancing early, the pair now sit at a high table off to one side, watching the crowd (and keeping an eye on Maribell as she and Beth and their dates get things going on the dance floor). Teddy pulls out their phone, sending a quick text to their date: "I wish I'd brought a deck of cards."

Alistair jumps a little as his phone goes off, having gotten lost in his own thoughts in the few moments of silence since they decided on getting drinks. Not a lot of thoughts really; mostly just three thoughts spiraling around and slamming into each other. _What am I supposed to do on a date? Wow, they look really nice in that outfit. I didn't realize you were allowed to wear a skirt and, uh, vest-blouse thing? to Homecoming but I guess you can 'cause they did and they look really great in it. I wonder where Carver and Samson and everyone are? Should I be holding her hand? Or should I offer to dance again, just in case she didn't mean it when they said they didn't want to dance? I don't see anyone else dancing yet so— oh wait, there's Cullen and de Chalons. Still weird he went with her. Is Teddy annoyed with me? I have no idea what I'm—_

"Huh?!" Blushing, he check his phone before turning to face Teddy, hand coming up to rub the back of his head only to stop when it touches gelled hair instead of just combed. "Cards? Oh! Heh, yeah." _Wow, they must be super bored. Maker, I'm boring her! I need to think of—_ "So do you have any pets?" he blurts out.

"No, we're not allowed to have pets in the orphanage," replies Teddy casually through the phone, wincing a little as they type. _Smooth. Way to remind him you're a charity case like Andrea instead of rich like Beth. Now he won't want to dance._

"Oh, uh, I guess that makes sense, yeah." _Brilliant, way to bring up the whole orphan thing, Al. Great job. Umm._ "Shame though. I mean, I sympathize totally, my— I wasn't allowed to have a pet either. My— I was told that they're too messy. Which is stupid, they're only messy or destructive if you're not taking care of them right. Dogs don't just break things for no reason. They only do that sort of thing if they weren't taught better, or they're feeling neglected or abandoned or under-stimulated. People don't realize that dogs need to do things to be happy, they think that dogs are fine with just sleeping, eating and being pet when their humans are in the mood. They're really more like little kids than people realize."

"Huh," replies Teddy through the phone. "I always pictured you with a dog. You know a lot about them."

"I always wanted one," he admits, relaxing slightly as he finds stable conversation footing. "I volunteered every summer at the local shelter. It was great. Sad, but great. And I read about them and watched YouTube vids about them a lot. But no, Isolde refused to allow any pets at all in the house. Lots of plants, but no pets."

"Is Isolde your... mother?" guesses Teddy, thumbs rapidly offering and deleting a few suggestions before they settle on that one. _I don't actually know much about Alistair's home life._

Alistair stares at his phone for a few seconds. Then a few seconds more. Then... Well, far too long for such a simple question. "Ummm." He clears his throat, looking awkwardly around them as if to see how alone they are. Not very alone at all, obviously, but they're not all that interesting to others and the music covers his voice pretty well so while not alone, they have a fair bit of privacy. He leans in towards them, voice really low as he replies, "sorta not really? She's, uh, well, I guess she's sorta my foster mother? Or like... step-foster mother maybe? Eamon— that's her husband— adopted me when my birth mother died when I was really young, but she never... I was kinda more raised by one of the maids there, who had a daughter my age but she wasn't my mother either, just sorta... my nursemaid and then... I dunno. It's kinda weird, sorry."

"No, I get it," sends Teddy quickly, before taking their time with the next message. "I was left on the chantry doorstep with $10 and a name. They spent the money on formula and I hate my name. So. I was three and already speech delayed by then, we don't know if something caused my autism or I was abused or what."

_Caused her what?_ "Uh, autism? What's, uh, what's that? I thought you were just mute and shy? Or I think Jules said that he heard you had agoraphobia? Something like that, I think. Whatever the one that means you get freaked out by crowds is."

"Autism is...." They stop typing, frowning a little. _How to describe it?_ "It's like my brain is an ancient 486 PC while yours is a shiny new AmellBook. It doesn't process the same way, and it gets overloaded easily. Strong sounds and tastes and smells or too much light can overwhelm me and I shut down. And talking to people is hard unless I feel absolutely safe. It takes a while for my brain to get used to the idea of school being a safe place to talk. Sometimes it can't process words at all, but most of the time the words just don't make it to my mouth."

After he reads and then rereads the text, silently mouthing the words the second time to make sure he follows, Alistair looks up to stare at the crowd for another moment. By the distant look in his eyes and the crease across his brow, he's deep in thought about the explanation. Finally, he gives a shallow series of nods. "Huh. I think that makes sense to me. The senses stuff sounds like puppies and babies. Not that I think you're— I just mean, that they can get overwhelmed with new stuff 'cause they're still learning and stuff." He ducks his head, neck flushed from his misstep. "But, uh, I don't— How am I an AmellBook and you're a whatever it was you said when I'm in basic classes and you're in Calc?"

Teddy pauses for a moment before typing a reply. "You know how puppies are easier to understand than people? I can barely understand puppies. I don't know how to talk to people or etiquette or social norms. and I can't handle loud or bright or spicy. If I have any stress I melt down like a toddler. But I can do math and music really well. Listening to music, not playing it. We have things that our brains fixate on, like knowing every punk band in the history of music, but they don't do the general stuff well at all."

"Huh." Alistair considers that for a moment, then his eyes widen. "Uh, what do you mean, about the brain fixating thing?" he asks with obviously fake casualness.

"One time I got so into tracing the references in Fall Out Boy titles that I forgot to eat for two days."

"Or, uh, like maybe, for instance, maybe someone memorizing each of the seven to twelve categories in all eight international dog show circuits." A cough. "And the judging criteria for each one. And, uh, maybe the winners of each? For the last decade?" He coughs again. "When they were nine?"

Teddy begins to type, deletes. Chews their lower lip a moment. Begins to type again, deletes some more. Finally types out, "Look, I'm not a doctor or anything..." and sends it. Glancing up at Alistair's face once more, they begin typing again, only for Ms Marinos the History teacher to pluck the phone from their hands and hold it above their head.

"You're being very rude to your date," she scolds, as Teddy scowls. "You can get this back from me at the end of the night. Kids these days, always on their phones."

Alistair stares at his phone, at the first part of what is clearly going to be 'that sort' of answer. _They're trying to soft-pedal it, but they mean yes. I'm autastic. Err. AuTIStac? Crap. How am I supposed to understand people when I can't even understand myself because I'm too stupid to even know how to pron—_ "Huh?"

Without thinking about consequences or motivations, Alistair finds himself on his feet with the teacher's wrist held in an iron grip. "That's theft. Give it back. Now," his brother orders with Alistair's mouth, voice ringing with the traditional Therian authority that is his legacy. _But when did he get here? Wait, was that ?!_

"Mr Guerrin! You will show respect or you will serve detention!" she orders, her scowl deepening. "I am chaperoning this dance and have every right to confiscate phones if I see them out."

"I _am_ showing respect; to my date, Teddy Joudain, whose only means of communication with me you just stole," Alistair counters gravely. "She's _mute_."

"She is not!"

Teddy nods pointedly, pointing at their mouth with two index fingers.

"She is _not_! I had her in my class just last semester!"

"They were in your class."

"Beg pardon?"

"Not 'she.' Teddy doesn't use those words, they use they. And them. Their." He shakes his head, the steel in his tone fading as he starts to really notice what he's done and still doing. "But about their mutism; it was in remission. It comes and goes due to environmental factors. Regardless, I'll have their phone back now."

"Telling poor English facts as well as tales, now, are we?" asks Ms Marinos. "They can only be used in the plural. A singular person is a he, a she, or an it."

"People are never _it_ ," Alistair counters, eyes narrowing. "That's the sort of thing a _Tevinter_ would say."

"Then _she_ had best stop telling lies."

"Is there a problem here, Amara?" calls Mr Gonzales, one of the math instructors, as he crosses to see them. "Good evening, Miss Joudain, Mr Guerrin. Hope you're enjoying yourselves."

"Theodosia here is telling—"

"Teddy!"

Ms Marinos smirks. " _Theodosia_ here was just telling us she is mute."

"Oh, that's the case. She has accommodations on file in the principle's office, something about selective mutism. It's triggered by stress or crowds."

Alistair smiles thinly, trying to channel Samson at his most confidently clever. "Such as perhaps a crowded ballroom at Homecoming on their first date with a friend, Mister G?" he suggests coolly. _Am I sweating? It feels like I must be soaking right through my suit._

"Exactly like. Why? What's been going on?"

"She was on her phone," says Ms Marinos, sounding more unsure.

"Probably, she uses it to talk to people when she's mute," replies the aforenamed Mr G.

"But she just spoke...?"

"For whatever reason, she's able to manage short one-word sayings sometimes." He shrugs. "Weird, huh? But it's all detailed in the note from her doctor."

"...fine," says Ms Marinos, handing back the phone. "But I'm watching you two. There had better be no more improper behavior!"

"I would _never_ dishonor any friend of mine in such a way, much less one who has honored me with the trust and privilege of escorting them to a formal event," Alistair says regally, though it's starting to turn pompous as his confidence continues to drain out. Taking the offered phone, he turns to return it to Teddy, allowing them to see the panicked look of 'oh Maker what did I just DO!' in his eyes.

Teddy smiles, typing out a quick "thnx" and sending it. _Hopefully that helps,_ they think, as the two teachers walk back to their respective corners of the ballroom. _I don't want to see him vomit in sheer panic._

Alistair, a queasy smile welded in place, slowly eases back into his chair. After a moment, he lifts his phone up so he can stare at it. And stare at it. And stare... He's not actually reading anything, is he?

"Al?" manages Teddy, after a long pause (and three tries).

He slowly tilts his head to peek at Teddy out of the corner of his eye. "...hey."

They give a relieved smile back, shoulders slumping a little. They hold up the phone, then, and quickly text, "u ok? that was super brave."

"Insane," Alistair corrects her, sounding stunned. "I'm insane. I just— It was just— When she took your phone, I was just... I just couldn't not? You're nice and sweet and small and oh Maker I swear I'm not just describing a puppy!"

Teddy grins, texting back, "I can be ur puppy if u want," hoping the flirtatious tone can be conveyed through their smile despite the lack of actual tone to their text.

Alistair turns beet red, but an answering smile forms. "I, uh, I've never had a... puppy before but I bet you'd make a right handsome one. I mean pretty! Attractive? Err, no, that's creepy, dogs aren't— What I mean is— Well, I, uh, I'd like to pet you!" The Templar trainee goes pale and he just closed his eyes to wait for the slap he figures he deserves.

Instead, Teddy leans forward and plants a kiss on Alastair's cheek. _Huh. Not bad. A little rougher than I expected. I guess he has stubble? Men are weird._

Eyes flying open, Alistair's hand comes up to lightly touch the spot Teddy had kissed. "Oh. Wow. That was— Thank you?" He wrinkles his nose. "Ugh, that was dumb, sorry. You, uh, you really are nice and, and, just really nice. Most people get fed up with me pretty quick. Even my friends." _Oh Maker, I didn't mean to say that last bit. I sound so pathetic. Quick, keep talking_! "And, hey, kiss. Kiss was good. You smell great too and, uh, it was good."

Teddy smiles, then texts, "Do you want to dance?" _I think after a show like that, I can put up with the crowd for one dance._

Alistair snorts a laugh, an abashed grin forming. "Want to dance? With you? Yeah. Now if you'd asked _can_ I dance, I'd have to give another answer," he jokes, something about Teddy's smile putting him at ease. "But if you're willing to risk your toes a little, I'd be honored, thrilled and happy to dance with you, Teddy."

Teddy slips their phone into their pocket, standing and offering their hand. Soon enough, Alistair is pulled onto the dance floor to join their friends, where he is free to demonstrate his awful lack of rhythm.

* * *

Meanwhile, across the dance floor, Andrea and Sampson are having a very different conversation. The pair have just arrived and grabbed drinks, and are standing near the entrance, trying to look like neither of them are nervous in the least.

_Not bad, not bad at all._ Samson laughs softly at Andrea's somewhat amusing observation about the décor, easily hiding the way his eyes skim over her breasts as she nervously tugs at her dress. "I have no idea either," he replies, shaking his head. _Nothing special about her face, but her body is a solid B. Loses some points for the pudge, but gains it back with bonus for those tits. Nice smile too, which doesn't hurt at all._ "The whole theme idea in general never made sense to me. I suppose I can get it if it's about the event itself, but what do mobsters and Prohibition have to do with Homecoming?" He pauses a second, then bursts into laughter. "Actually, never mind, I just got it!"

"Because we're underage?" wonders Andrea, worrying at her lower lip. _I'm off my game. Why am I so nervous? Calm down girl. Just because this is the night you let him make you a woman doesn't mean you should freak out about it. Just because it might be the last time you get any for a decade while you go into the Sisterhood, before you get married to become a Bride like Andraste. Just because... dammit, pay more attention to him and less to your own nerves!_

"Hah! Yeah, that and because, just like in the Prohibition, I can guar-ran-tee that some enterprising soul will have smuggled some booze in despite the rules," he explains with a smirk. _Such, for instance, Steve and myself_. He looks her over, careful to keep his expression considering instead of lecherous. "I'd wager you're less a vodka girl and more something classier like brandy or maybe a fine liqueur though. Wine seems too fussy, too, hmm, snobby for you. But maybe..."

He gives her an even longer look, dragging it out until she starts to ask him what he'd been about to say. Shrugging casually first, he answers, "just kind of wondering if you have a little bit of a wild, exciting side to you, hidden behind that cute shy smile of yours. You know, the sort of girl that'd be up for trying a shot of tequila or something stronger but still classy like, hmmm, maybe Sex on the Beach? Or a Buttery Nipple? Could go with a Slippery Nipple but you don't like things too sugary, right?" _Challenging her, check. Innuendo, check. Compliments, check. Remembering something about her, check. Damn, and we haven't had our first dance yet. I'm on fire tonight._

_Is everyone else drinking that much?_ she has to wonder, as she nods along. "I've never tried tequila," _or brandy or anything other than vodka snuck into energy drinks so the Sisters won't notice_ , "but I've always wanted to. Maybe when I get down to Cancun someday," she adds. _Please don't remember that I'm penniless. I'll get there someday, even if I have to save up as a Sister and make it when I'm old and wrinkled._

"Cancun?" Samson shakes his head, then glances around carefully. Stepping closer, he leans in towards her, so their heads are only a few inches away. "Tourist trap; I don't blame you for aiming for there, mind you. They have great PR and all, that's kind of the point," he adds with a chuckle. "Nah, if you really want to have the time of your life, you know— sunny beaches, great booze, wild clubs, amazing landscapes and friendly locals— you have to go to one of the three hidden gems of the Caribbean. I'm talking Cuba, WyldeFyre Isle or the DR. Depends on what you're really looking for," he explains in a confiding tone. "Cuba's got resorts and beaches, the DR is almost as good there and also has hunting, fishing, hiking and that sort of stuff if that's your thing. And WyldeFyre? Heh, that's a _private_ island. No laws but international laws, place is basically one huge dance club, beach party and festival all at once." He shakes his head, expression almost awed. "Place is almost a legend in some circles."

"Oh, right, WyldeFyre. You know, I had a guy invite me for a couple weeks out there," she says, lying through her teeth. "I turned him down though. Guy was like forty, it was pretty sad he was still hitting on high school girls."

"Mmmh," Samson says, not buying it for even a second. "Some people are just... losers like that, I guess. Probably lying anyway, so good call there." He shakes his head sadly. "Honestly, dude sounds like he could have been some sorta sicko. Sorta guy that ends up featuring in the news alongside phrases like 'remains were found in his basement' and 'resolves a number of missing persons cases,' if you get my meaning. Good on you for spotting it and bailing." He winks at her. "Got some brains to go with your beauty."

"Right? Good thing none of us are that pathetic," she laughs, shaking her head. _Ugh, why did I say that, he'll think I'm weird._

Samson laughs along with her, and when he steps back now that the 'confidential' information is passed over, he's maneuvered himself so he's standing right at her side, almost touching. He shifts the topic to something less charged for a few minutes, just a random story about a group project he's doing in his chem class. As he goes through the story, Andrea notices him tugging at his waist and neck uncomfortably, though he doesn't seem to notice he's doing it. "Seriously, Cullen's a good friend, solid and loyal, easily my first pick in the field or against any kind of danger," he says dramatically, plucking at the collar of his vest. "But I will never, not ever, ask him to type up our findings again. Maker bless him, he did try, but I swear his typing speed can't be more than ten words a minute. It was agonizing."

She laughs, though not very hard or long. "Is your throat alright? You seem to be having trouble breathing," she notes, frowning a little. _I hope he's not allergic to something in the drink. It'd be just my luck if he goes home early._

He looks startled, but only briefly. "Hmm? Oh." He lowers his hand briefly, then lifts it again to rub at head sheepishly. "No, it's not—" Samson falters, looking faintly chagrined. "I think it's my vest. Or maybe my undershirt? Feels like I got it twisted or something somehow, it's not sitting right."

"Do you need to try and fix it?" she asks, frowning a little.

"I thought I could just ignore it but clearly not," he says ruefully, offering a lopsided smile in apology. "Not sure what I did wrong the first time though. I think maybe it has to do with that weird strap along the back?"

"Oh. I can take a look if you want? I had to wear a vest in Hello, Dolly last year." Andrea had only been a chorus dancer, but there hadn't been enough guys, so she'd been dressed up to look male.

Samson affects a look of surprise that swiftly shifts to appreciation. "Would you really? I'd love a hand then, yeah. If I'm being honest, this is the first time I've worn a suit this fancy at school," he confesses, taking her arm without a word as he starts walking. "Normally end up wearing my dress uniform to formal stuff, you know? The only events I've done that I wasn't representing the Templar at were costume balls or I wore a tux. But that seemed, hmm, I guess it just seemed like it would be overdoing it for Homecoming." He smirks over at her, winking. "So you'll have to stick with me for a while if you want to see me in that."

Andrea flashes him a grin as they walk. "Focus on one thing at a time, lover-boy."

"Lover-boy, is it," Samson comments in a pleased drawl, sliding a glance at her as they walk. Smooth as silk, he shifts the hand on her elbow to the small of her back. "I think I like that." _For now anyway. Once I'm balls deep in her, I think she'll be rethinking the 'boy' part real quick. Hmm. The first part is kinda soft too, come to think of it._ He has to fight to keep a smug leer from forming as he considers convincing her to call him 'fuck-daddy' in private.

"Oh good. Let's hope you keep earning it," she says, with a playful grin. Oddly enough, the hand on her back relaxes her a little, reminds her why he's here— why they're both here. _I'm really not great at flirting_ , she notes. _Ugh, why is this so hard? Flirt first, get promises before you give anything away, never give it up on the first date— which this technically is— but do give up something at Homecoming or he'll never take you to prom... there's just so much to keep in mind._

Despite his efforts, he can't help but shift to a smirk when she not only doesn't pull away or grow uncomfortable at the borderline intimate touch, but instead settled against him slightly. _Oh yeah, she's here for it. Total virgin of course, but she's double DTF. Maker's blackened dick, I bet I could have her going ass-to-mouth in two months. Tops. Or... Hmmm. Maybe it'd be better to nudge her towards a threesome? Steve'll have burned his bridges with that Maribells chick by then for sure. Might be able to snap her up as my official piece and keep Andrea around as my deluxe side piece._

He laughs at her, sounding impressed and pleased, as they turn down a side hall. "Oooh, someone's feisty, huh? Alright, alright," he says easily, bobbing his head. He leans in, breath tickling her ear as he whispers, "or are you more naughty than feisty, but being coy about it?" He finishes just as they reach a small room that holds a computer, printer and desk, likely designed to allow business travelers to finish up any last minute work. As part of his move to reach out and open the door, he slides his other hand down so it's firmly on her hip, the lowest finger just barely trespassing over forbidden skin.

_Now?! **Right** now?!_ Andrea experiences a moment of panic she tries to pass off as a thrill. _Andraste's tits, I'm not ready! Okay, okay, calm down. He probably just wants to finger-bang me, maybe a handy in return. I can do this._ "Wouldn't you like to find out?" she purrs, trying on her best 'sexy' voice.

Samson's eyes gleam, a shiver of delighted surprise washing over him. _Well damn! I hadn't expected to get her to give it before the first dance! Hah! Maker, she's basically starving for cock, isn't she? Wait, no, take it slow, ol'chum. Remember the lessons Guylian taught you; even sluts want to pretend they're not easy, no woman will complain about more foreplay, and better to take an extra hour to get some pussy instead of getting head in five minutes._ Despite the mental reminder, Samson pulls her into the room and shuts the door with his foot with noticeable eagerness. He turns in towards her, so they're facing each other with barely a foot between them.

Looking her right in the eyes, he slowly moves his hand down to cup her ass, fingers flexing and rubbing gently to get a really good feel. "Damn girl," he murmurs, sounding pleased and aroused. "You need to stop wearing those terrible baggy jeans, your ass is _tight." Heh. We'll work on that later though._

_Oh Maker, he's grabbing my ass,_ she thinks, too worried to really sink in and enjoy it. _Relax. Even guys know butt stuff is advanced. Just worry about making out now, and if we go further, we go further._ Instead of answering, she wraps her arms around his neck, leaning forward to kiss him softly, tentatively.

Samson lets her move in first, lets her press her lips against his, even lets her move her lips against his for a few seconds. Then he steps in closer, so they're not just in each others space but so he's flush against her body. Then he moves in again, still kissing her, so she has to back up until she's against the wall near the door. He hums, almost groans, against her lips, then swipes his tongue across her bottom lip. When she gasps softly, he takes swift advantage to slide his tongue into her mouth. And all the while, his hand continues to massage her ass.

_This is okay,_ she tells herself. _This is just kissing. I can do kissing. But it's so much **more** kissing somehow, pressed up against me like this, and on Homecoming... and I can feel him pressing against my waist, through his trousers. He's firm and ready for... for whatever comes next. _

Coaxing her into moving her tongue into his mouth, he starts to suck on it rhythmically as if it were a nipple. Certainly not a cock; nipple or maybe clit. Not a cock. He groans again, trying to rev her up some as he can sense her hesitation. _Hmm, need to change things up before she loses her nerve,_ he decides. Samson pivots his stance so his thigh is pressed firmly against her pelvis, which also means there's space enough for him to bring his other hand into play. The zipper on her dress is most of the way down her back and his hand inside the front before she even notices something is happening. She only has a second or two to try and decide what she'll do about it, which isn't nearly enough time to act before a large, warm hand is cupping her breast, the rough pad of his thumb rasping across the nipple.

_No no no no no!_ she thinks, instinctively, trying to pull back and banging her head against the wall. "Shit," she hisses against his mouth, wriggling as if to get free.

Samson scowls for a second, lips parting from hers, but he's so close she misses the expression. He swiftly puts on a look of mild apology and a sheepish smile. "Sorry, was my hand cold?" he asks, moving it off her breast to instead rub against her back in smooth, broad circles as if to warm it. He moves right back in to kiss her again, not wanting to lose their momentum. _Come on, don't wuss out on me, Andrea. Show me you're just as freaky as I think you are..._

_Why am I freaking out? Stop freaking out! Stop it. Ugh, that's not helping, and now I can't enjoy kissing because I keep wondering where that hand is going next._ She pulls back, then, murmuring softly, "I'm sorry, I need a drink or two before we can do this. I want to, just..."

"Sorry, I guess I just forgot— You're just so, ya know, real about what you want and so _responsive_ ," Samson murmurs, stealing kisses every couple of words. "But yeah, we can slow it down, I guess. Or maybe... think you'd be able and up for reciprocating?" To make his meaning clear, he moves his hand off her back, captures hers and places it on his chest.

_Is this it? This is when..._ Her hand trails down his chest, towards his strained buttons. _Be cool. Remember what you read in Cosmo: firm but not tight, use your nails just a little bit, gentle on the underside and the head, run your thumb over the tip._

_Damnit, really? Ugh. Virgins really are raw clay.. Sure, means you can shape 'em nearly however you like, but it's a shit ton of work and you gotta get your hands real dirty._ "Hey, you alright?" he asks softly, holding her hand still.

She looks up, meeting his eyes for the first time— her own looking like a frightened rabbit, her heart pounding in her chest. "Yes," she lies. "I thought... don't you want...?"

_Fuck. I could get it, maybe even fuck her, but she'd either ghost or snap afterwards. Fine, dropping down yet another gear._ "Hey, hey," he croons softly, offering a warm smile, then a kiss on her brow. He tugs her hand back up, then kisses her palm. "It's fine, I get it, really. Virgin, right? It's cool, I knew that's what was, uh, that's where you were at. It's cool, we got time. Alright?"

_He's so kind and respectful_ , she thinks, eyes welling with tears. "Thank you. I swear, I'm ready, I just need a drink or two. That's all. It'll loosen me up a little."

"Worth the wait," he says, deliberately leave the comment vague. He kisses her again, keeping it light but wanting to reinforce the idea that he's setting the pace and deciding what they do or don't do. "It's just— heh. It's just stage fright basically. You'd know about that sort of thing, yeah?" Another kiss and he steps back to give her some space.

He purposely doesn't remind her about her zipper, so when she shifts away from the wall, the front of her strapless dress falls forward. Reacting just a second 'too slow' to catch it, he instead ends up holding it in place with her strapless bra plainly visible. "Shit, shit, sorry," he babbles, making himself sound flustered and apologetic so she'll focus more on his distress than her flashing him. Fumbling, he finally pulls her dress upright and laughs weakly. "Oops?"

_Oh god, I'm so unprofessional and clumsy,_ she notes, hastily trying to do up her zipper. "Sorry," she mumbles, blushing. _Stage fright, as if, I never get stage fright, I just... well, I just need a few drinks. I'll drink the hard stuff, that'll loosen me up._ "Sorry," she says again, as she finishes the zipper. "Right, let me look at that strap for you," she adds, squatting a little so she can reach the little belt behind his vest.

_I just need a few drinks. Then I'll be ready_ , she promises herself. _I won't embarrass myself again._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homecoming night continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: attempted date-rape, casual racism, sexual content

Maribell Rutherford is having a wonderful homecoming. Last year, she hadn't had a date at her old school; she had transferred thanks to Leandra Amell's patronage, and since she'd arrived at Mother Terasis du Lion Academy, everyone has been simply lovely to her. She'd made sure to formally introduce herself to her cousin Cullen that first week, which had lead to them having tea together the following weekend. He hasn't gotten around to returning the invitation, but it's still early. Besides, Beth and Teddy had been looking out for her wellbeing just that morning in a way her old friends never would have. She hardly even missed them, really. Everything is just splendid.

Steve Carroll isn't someone she would have considered as date material at her old school. He isn't popular, he isn't an athlete, and he's rumored to be something of a bad boy, perhaps even a player. But here she is, twirling a waltz on the dance floor, having a lovely time. Why, he hasn't even gotten the least bit fresh with her despite having his hand on her back as part of the dance. She's able to relax in a way she hadn't expected.

_This is so lovely. Saintly Bride was a perfectly respectable school, but it's so very easy to see why du Lion is considered to be in the top three schools in all of North America. This hotel is incredible, this ballroom is incredible, the music, the food, the decorations, the— the— the everything is incredible! And Steve is actually kinda funny. A little, hmm, intense maybe? He stares a lot... But he has a really nice smile!_ Which is good, as his too-steady, too-familiar gaze would be distinctly unnerving, even creepy, if he hadn't had a friendly smile accompanying it at all times. _I just wish I'd been able to get a new dress, instead of just having this one altered a touch for the theme. It feels off, wearing a dress I wore on at date with Garrett. At least Beth doesn't know that or she'd probably not have been willing to help me get ready._

And she very, very firmly doesn't dwell over the memory of her, Teddy and Beth all getting dressed and readied together. It's perfectly normal to observe other women after all, it's part of learning how to display and comport yourself better. Perfectly normal, even expected. In fact, watching how Beth used double-sided tape to make sure her breasts, ones even larger than her own, stay in her low-cut bra had been fascinating and useful knowledge that she's actually using right now to great effect. No reason to feel ashamed or excited or any of the odd cocktail of feelings she's carefully not thinking about. No reason at all.

There's really only one thought going through Steve Carroll's head: _Man, I wish I was high right now._ It's been almost 12 hours since his last joint, and he's feeling the lack quite a bit. Don't get it twisted; he's enjoying his hand on Maribell's soft skin, the feeling of her subtle weight in his arms. He's looking forward to all the activities they have planned for tonight. But he's really going to need that first joint on the way to the hotel to loosen up his twitchy nerves.

_I know Samson is going for a quickie at the dance, but I don't really see the point when I'm going to get the real deal later on. Why get greedy? Just bide my time and it'll all be mine._ Unlike Samson, he doesn't plan on trying to win Maribell over with his personality. He knows he doesn't have much of one. Just keep his mouth shut, smile a lot, and win her over with his gentlemanly restraint. _She'll never see it coming when I offer her a cigarette on the drive over. Weed makes people horny; she won't be able to stop herself._

"Are you having a good time?" he asks quietly, leaning close to her ear.

Beaming at him, Maribell nods. She's grinning, eyes bright and cheeks flushed just a little between her excitement and the dancing they've done so far. "Oh my yes, this has been a real treat so far, Carroll," she replies with her Southern Bell showing very strongly. "Thank you so kindly for inviting me. And for the dancing! I had been much afeared that I'd not be able to find a suitable dance partner, or, if I am honest, that you'd disdain to indulge me. People talk so much about how men detest dancing, so without the push to learn that seems so rare in this part of the UP, I hadn't expected you to be so willing. Or so skilled!" She squeezes his shoulder briefly to emphasis her thanks.

_Blame my mother sending me to Chant Camp all those years, making us have a formal ball after the pageant each year_. Steve grins. "It's only what a beauty like you deserves," he says, a line that worked wonders at Chant Camp, even if the most he'd gotten there was a handjob out in the woods.

Maribell colors prettily, casting her eyes down demurely as she stammers out a politely embarrassed but pleased refusal of the praise. It's not quite a faked reaction, but it's not truly honest either; she's reacted that same exact way so many times, it's as real and as empty as murmuring 'pardon me' while passing through a busy crowd. "You're too kind," she adds, lifting her gaze partially back up. "But you needn't indulge me for every dance. I'm sure you'd like to spend some time with your friends as well, just as I would like to with mine. And..." She blushes again, this time more honestly. "I should like to meet your friends and make met to you my own." _If nothing else, it would be reassuring to confirm that he really is as nice as I think he seems with Beth and Teddy. I've so little trust in my own ability to judge such things, after... after all the proof I've been given about my failings this last year._

_No way do I want Raleigh making moves on you,_ thinks Steve uncharitably. "I suppose I could be persuaded to let you go. For a time," he teases. "I would like to meet your friends, certainly."

"Finish this current dance then, and after we can speak with whomever we see first?" Maribell suggests winsomely.

"Splendid." Steve grins, darting forward to plant a chaste kiss on her cheek. _T minus two hours until I get high._

* * *

Cyndi Blacquin finds herself utterly bored. It isn't that her date is a poor dancer, exactly, only that the nimble ballroom champion is a little out of his league. And yet, what else is there to do? Sit and drink spiked punch? Take another round of photos in their perfect outfits with their perfect hair and perfect smiles? Homecoming isn't even Prom, just a sort of practice run.

_If I dislike Olocaryn, Pentegast isn't a bad catch either,_ she muses. As they twirl, she tries to imagine waking up every morning, fixing coffee, and reading the paper alongside Anthony. She imagines two perfect children, with her silver hair and his Grecian nose. A boy with his brawn, a girl with her delicate build. She pictures them running home from preschool with drawings for the fridge— but then, she imagines the private tutors she'd have to hire to ensure those pictures came out award-winning, just as hers always had. She pictures stifling that radiant little-girl grin into a controlled, tight, careful smile like the one that greeted her in the mirror, hiding delicate rosy cheeks behind a heavy mask. She imagines rarely seeing her husband as he goes about the business of running a corporation or a country, of rarely leaving the house except to brunch with her girlfriends. She imagines, in essence, becoming her parents.

She hates it. She hates every second of it.

But then, what does the man matter, in such a life? Anthony or Theodmon, it doesn't matter which. These are the best years of her life, the years when she is young and free to do as she pleases so long as she doesn't bring shame on the family. And here she is, wasting them dancing with a boy she barely knows as he struggles to recall the exact steps to a waltz she perfected before the age of seven.

"Do you want to get a drink?" she asks, suddenly, her eyes falling on a line of shoulder she knows all too well, a bit of bronzed skin with honey-blonde hair dangling down before it. _Suddenly, being drunk sounds like a good idea._

"Oh la, surely not!" Shannon protests brightly, eyes alight with eager interest as she clasps her hands together. Grinning, Cailin settles in back against his chair. A look of pleased confidence brought on by the delighted attention of a very pretty girl is firmly welded on his face as he nods to assure her, surely yes. He continues his story then, after using the pause created by his pack of followers sharing their table chiming in to express their own wonder to take a double swallow of whiskey enhanced punch.

"Amazing, Cailin, truly." Cooing softly, she presses closer into him as part of leaning in so she can see his phone screen. A video clip of the young man giving a speech to the state senate about the importance of having examples of fine leadership for the upcoming generation to emulate, mixed in with a fairly subtle show of support for an incumbent candidate. When the two minute long clip finishes, Cailin easily allows himself to be convinced by Florianne to replay it.

"Oh la, Cailin, you'll have to explain it to me, please." Offering a magnanimous chuckle, he happily does so, spending the next ten minutes giving a more-accurate-than-not explanation of the importance of tariffs. Eyes wide, Shannon props her head up with one hand, artfully angling herself so Cailin can see plenty of sun-kissed skin without putting herself too blatantly on display.

"La, Cailin, that's—" _used interesting twice already, wonderful doesn't fit, go with—_ "so very clever!" _Lifted nearly word for word from Doctor Penolu's most recent book, but very clever. Maker, he never shuts up. Shit, need to—_ "That does make sense, yes. You explain this so well, truly!" _Probably helps that I'm four credits shy of getting a BA in international finance already, but yes, I'm sure your cursory understanding of tariffs is what is allowing me to follow along with your lecture. Is it too early to duck out to 'do some last minute Queen campaigning' or something? Almost an hour now and I've gotten all of one dance so far. How did I never realize how full of himself he is? I knew he was arrogant but this pompous? This shallow? I'm actually half grateful for Florianne butting in so shamelessly. Insulting, but at least it's less flattery I have to shovel._

_I wish I was with Cyndi right now. I wish we could dance together all night._

_I wonder if she's having a good time?_

_...and do I hope she is... or isn't?_

* * *

Andrea pulls back for air, her tongue still tingling with the taste of Samson's mouthwash, arms entangled around his waist as his hands are cupping her ass. She can feel his fingers probing just a little at her butt cheeks, almost teasing, almost demanding entry. She knows what he wants, and he's getting less patient about it, though he has yet to say a word directly on the matter.

She grabs for her drink, which convinces him to release her, and downs it. This is the third Bee's Knees she's had, and it's clear none of them have been as virgin as the teachers swore they were, but she's still only a little warm, not really even tipsy. _This isn't working. This isn't...._

_Okay, this isn't working. Something has her fucking spooked real bad. She shouldn't be this weirded out. She's clearly getting randy, she's willing to put out and even willing to admit it, but she just keeps freaking out right when things starting to heat up. She's def feeling it. It's sweltering in here, so I know damn well it's ain't a chill that's got her nipples jabbing into my chest. And that squirm? Yeah, she wants cock, wants it real bad._ Samson fights back a scowl as she drains her third drink without even a pretense of tasting it. While her eyes are averted, he indulges himself in a glower.

As she lowers the cup, he steps up behind her and wraps his arms around her, resting his hands flat on her stomach and pulls her against his body. Sighing softly, he rests his head alongside hers, his mouth just above her right ear. "Still nervous?" Despite the inflection he uses, his words are clearly not meant to be a question. With his proximity, she can feel the hard length of his cock pressing against her ass, something he makes no effort to hide.

Andrea takes a deep breath. _It's time. It's time to put up or shut up. Maybe if we slip off, I can give him a handy and he'll be satisfied with that. I can do that. It doesn't involve my body, really, just my hands, and hands are nothing, I touch all sorts of things with my hands. Alright. I can do that. It's just touching his penis._ "Let's slip off to the men's," she whispers, closing her eyes in a brief, wordless prayer.

_Anal with Andraste, she's still— Ugh. Fine. If she's going to offer over and over again, then fuck it, I'll get my rocks off however else this night fucking goes,_ Samson swears to himself, eyes hard and dangerous as he looks down her neckline. Pressing a kiss to her temple, then her neck, he pulls her around and smiles at her. "Been looking forward to this ever since I saw you in this damn sexy dress, Andrea. Good to get a proper taste of you." He kisses her again, light and quick, then steps back. "Come on, I think I know were there's a staff bathroom that should be empty this late." _And if you freeze up on me again, then I'll just have to make sure you're nice and ready for the next, even if you don't want to be._

Andrea follows meekly, taking long, slow breaths. _It's just my hand_ , she tells herself over and over. _I'm such a coward. Is this how I plan to get laid? Well, but, it's only the first date, I don't... I don't want him to think I'm a slut. I'd give it up if it'd been three dates._

Samson lets her push open the door to the staff bathroom, his arm behind her, on her lower back. And so she's the first to realize the bathroom is already occupied: by Julian Gaider, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed in bliss, as Nick LeBlanc sucks him off in plain view.

"Sorry!" she squeaks, bright red, as she pulls back, pulling the door shut after her. _Shit, shit shit shit! I had no idea they were— and in the same place Samson wanted to take me— did he know? No, of course not, there's no way— But they're both men! How can they— That's so sinful and—_

Samson stumbles back as she pushes back into him, swearing as his elbow smacks on the doorframe. "The fu—" Almost automatically, he cuts himself off before he can tear into her. _Not Steve or Cullen— Gotta keep it tame. But seriously, what the fuck was that about? Wait, did I..._

"Was that Jules in there?" he demands, rubbing his arm as he eyes the closed door. "Getting a beej?" He smirks, a bit of humor restored. "Heh, good on him." _He went with that cripple friend of Carver's sister, didn't he? Quick work. Of course, now I really can't leave the dance before having Andrea get me off._

Andrea nods, swallowing to wet her dry throat. "Y-yeah," she says, quietly, pushing what she'd just seen, the details of it, out of mind for now. "Um, let's just— let's find another bathroom or— or maybe that little office area?" _Play it cool, don't let him think you've lost interest. How do they avoid gagging like that? No, play it cool. Don't think too hard about it. Don't think about the sin you just saw._

"Feeling inspired?" Samson teases her, waggling his eyebrows. Instead of walking away with her, he instead braces himself against the wall with her pinned between his arms. Truth be told, he honestly assumes the look in her eyes, the hitch in her breathing just then, are signs of her arousal. Not that he'd really care she was scared in this moment, that for just that instant, she couldn't find any trust in herself that he was really the patient gentleman he's been playing all evening. If he'd been asked, and somehow forced to be honest, he'd have just remarked about how a little fear would make it better for her. Get her blood pumping, get her wetter, make her squirm more. He licks his lips, eyes focused pointedly on her own mouth, as he widens his stance as if to make room for her right here in the hallway.

"Lost?"

Andrea is just sinking to her knees — _how bad could it be?_ — when the voice cuts in. She gives another little squeak, ducking under his arm — _see, I could get away if I wanted to, I'm not trapped_ — and stammering out, "Mr Keter! Hi! Uh, we were just— the bathroom's occupied, so—"

Samson goes stock still for a long moment, needing the time to control the surge of rage he's sure would show on his face. He's just turning around, a somewhat forced expression of sheepish apology in place, when the retired-police-officer now-geology-teacher replies, "is it now?" The older man glances at the door, the small ventilation windows showing a distinct lack of light coming from inside the room, then back at her. "Well, there's a full-sized public restroom right by the dance hall; howsabout I walk you two back there so you don't get turned around, hmmm?"

Swallowing back the taste of bile, Samson laughs ruefully. "That's, uh, that's probably a good idea, Mr. Keter," he manages, stepping up behind Andrea and resting a hand lightly on her back. "Andrea's real distracting I guess, I just keep getting all sorts of turned around."

"Sorry," she says, trying to put as much lightness as she can into her voice. "I didn't want to walk to the bathroom alone, I was worried I'd get lost. Thanks for showing us around," she adds, while internally she's just screaming _fuck, fuck, fuck! Why is everything going wrong today!_

"Turned around," the teacher says dryly, shaking his head in clear disbelief. Still, there's a hint of humor in his face. "Well, let's be off then. And... Well, anyone can get lost, it happens, and certainly isn't worth making trouble over. Getting lost twice in one night however... Might need to talk about your poor navigation skills with the Deputy Head on Monday." Warning given, he starts for the ballroom, the two students clearly expected to follow along.

_That's... fair of him_ , Samson admits begrudgingly. _Not like he realizes that he's the fucking seventy-thousandths cock-block I've had tonight._ Eyes narrowing, his hand drifts down so he's cupping Andrea's ass as they walk, wanting, no, needing the win. _Fuck it,_ he decides abruptly. _I'm not taking any more chances with this going badly. Soon as we get back to the hall, I'm making this a sure thing. Andrea'll thank me for it in the morning, when she's gotten well and truly laid and she realizes how stupid she's being with her nerves._ "This'll be one hell of a funny story to tell, eventually," he murmurs to Andrea, realizing he needs to pull her back in, set her at ease. He doesn't move his hand however.

Andrea chuckles, nodding a little. "For sure," she murmurs. _Do I really want to do this?_ she wonders, biting her lower lip. She keeps picturing Nick's face, his jaw wide, as he pumps back and forth in the restroom. _Am I ready? Or am I just letting him get what he wants so I can keep him happy?_

By the time they reach the ballroom, however, she's made up her mind again: _I'm not going to let anything stop me. I'm going to do this._ "Will you grab me a glass of the punch?" she asks sweetly, hoping he picks up her signal. _If I get drunk enough, my nerves won't matter anymore._

"Of course," Samson murmurs gently, cupping her face as he ever so sweetly kisses her lips. "I want you to be able to relax too. Was really hoping to give you a wonderful Homecoming memory and all. Still time, I guess. I hope?" Giving a wistful, almost sad, smile, he steps back to head for the refreshment table. "Find a table for us?" he calls back to her as he strides off through the crowd. _I'll get a pitcher of punch and a pitcher of the juice. Blend her a glass, pure punch for the second, then another blended one with few drops of something special to finish things off. Don't want to make it too sudden or she might spook. Again. Or puke for that matter._

When he returns, Andrea's fingers are drumming nervously on the tabletop, but she flashes him a smile as she takes the punch, taking a sip.

And coughs immediately.

"What the hell is in this?!" she wonders, pulling back the glass to squint at it. "Have you tried the punch?"

In way of answer, Samson salutes her with his half empty glass, then drains it in one smooth go. "Not bad," he judges. "Not great; some joker added wine, I think?" He makes a face to show his thoughts on that addition. "Whiskey and vodka too, I think. Vodka's just vodka, but the whiskey is fairly smooth despite what's been done to it so I figure some moron dumped a better than decent bottle in the punch. Damn waste really, shouldn't use anything better than grocery store mid-shelf for spiking a punch."

Andrea tries another sip, but judging by her expression it doesn't improve with exposure. "Ugh. I wish I could just down a glass of the whiskey. It's got to taste better than this mess."

_Oh? Hmmm. I mean, I didn't want to push her on this but if she's gonna give me an opening like that then, well..._ "Try— actually, here," he says, changing his mind mid-sentence. Instead of reaching for her glass, he pours his own half full of punch, then finishes it with the juice. "That should be smoother." Once she's taken it for a cautious sip, he adds, "but if you're really serious about wanting to try something more, ah, nuanced and smooth..."

"Yes, please," she practically begs. _I mean, this would get me drunk if I chugged it. And held my nose the whole time. But I'd rather not behave like a persnickety frat boy in front of my date._

Samson grins at her, absently offering a prayer of thanks to the Maker for finally giving him a damn break tonight. "Cool, then I got ya covered. Just..." He casually looks around the room. "Got two teachers nearby so I'll need for you to give me some cover. Doubt they'd approve of me adding a shot or two of Irish and special to your juice, right?" _I'll just keep what's so special about the 'special' to myself, of course. No need to risk you getting overly excitable about how some assholes might call this stuff the same as roofies. Like I'd ever need to use something like that shit on a date._

In Samson's mind, that'd be like using explosives to fish. Effective, sure; funny, also sure. But crude, and noticeable, and often times messy or wasteful. Now, a few drops of Liquid E+ is another matter entirely. For one, it leaves the system much faster, which means not only shorter side effects but also makes it harder to test for. And the added MDMA adds a layer of euphoria to the blissful dulling of the sedative so not only will she care less about what she's been asked to do or having done to her, but she'll feel better throughout. And, of course, the concentrated caffeine means she'll be ramped up and restless for hours despite feeling aimless and lazy. All in all, Samson figures the sweet spot of docile, blissed out and restless that Liquid E+ produces is just the thing for a clever man to get ideal results from. Because using a bomb to fish is cheating, but using a laser guided, military grade sniper rifle at a carnival is just being clever. Somehow.

"Sure, no problem," she says casually, shifting to turn her back to him and keep an eye out for the teachers. _Irish and special? I like the sound of that. Wonder what he means... high-grade whiskey? Whiskey and vodka for extra potency? That must be it. Play it cool, don't be square, and for the Maker's sake, drink the damn cup this time!_

When he taps her on the shoulder, she turns, flashing him a broad smile as she takes the cup back. This time, she takes a tentative sip, and grins. "Much better, thanks." And, much to her surprise, she doesn't have to lie when she says it. It's got a subtle salty taste but it's mostly covered by the much more dominant tastes of good quality orange juice and what must be the whiskey. Sounds like she's heard whiskey described before anyway; a smoky, almost woody taste that invokes the alluring scent of wood stoves, chased by vanilla and hints of some kind of spice. There's some burn to it, but mostly just a warm glow in her stomach.

"Glad to be able to help," Samson says with obvious satisfaction. "I'm not a big drinker— I'm a Templar recruit and we're better than that— but there's just something about a good, quality whiskey that speaks to a man's soul." _And after a glass of that, fuck, half a glass, you'll be ready for me to speak to your cunt with my dick. Hmm. I should put in an order for an Uber now, she won't take long at this point._ Nodding to himself, he debates between requesting Cathy or Jamal before deciding on Jamal. _Cathy's pretty chill but she might make a fuss about Andrea being high. Jamal's solid though, even if the fag makes me pay extra for discretion._

Andrea takes a second sip, feeling the warmth spreading through her. "This is really good," she agrees. "I love that smoky, vanilla flavor. Where did you learn about whiskey?" she asks, tilting her head. _This I can do. Relax, get him talking, give it time to sink in. Thank the Maker Samson's so prepared! Not to mention honorable; he's been putting up with my nonsense all night. Time to give him what he wants._

* * *

Fixing her smile in place with effort, Maribell twists away from Steve for the third time in the last fifteen minutes. _What in the Maker's grace happened with him?_ she wails internally. He'd been a gentleman all night, right up until he used the restroom. _Did— did something happen to him? Some bad news from home or something? He's— he's being so—_ Her smile finally crumbles as he moves his hand back to her inner thigh less than ten seconds after she'd moved away from him.

"Steve! I did not give you permission to take such liberties, nor would I do so for any reason! Remove yourself from my presence, you uncouth rake," she snaps at him. Or at least, she wishes she could say those words in that way. All she can actually do is murmur a pleading, "please stop?"

_Stop_? he wonders, seething inside. _We haven't so much as kissed, and I saw Shannon Marass wrapped around Cailan Therian in the hallway, her tongue practically down his throat. That could have been me, but no, I had to get stuck with the virgin. Pah._ "Let me get you a drink," he murmurs in her ear. "Some punch? It's virgin," _like your useless ass won't be at the end of tonight._

"...yes, thank you," she whispers, staring at the table as she fights back tears. _Why is this— He didn't even really do anything, just— just touched me—_ She shudders a little, luckily after Steve had already turned away from the table. _Why does it bother me so very much? When Garrett kissed me, when Garrett touched my hips or bare back, it felt... warm. A little scary, but in an exciting way. More driving on the highway, rather than walking alone in the dark. So different than Carroll touching me. Or even Teddy or Beth's hugs. Which..._ She shakes her head sharply to dislodge that entire train of thought as being highly unproductive. Or safe to have, for that matter.

She looks around, trying to distract herself. Part of her feels almost obligated to see if she can spot Steve coming back, but truth be told, she's more interested in just watching the crowd. The dance is both strange and familiar to her; she's been to dozens, scores, of dances and parties throughout her life, but none like this one. She's never been to a party with so many people her age and so few adults. She's never been to a party with modern rock music as the main genre of choice yet classical as the second. Or where the food is at least one third pizzas of some kind. The outfits are surprisingly familiar though, even if the females are showing perhaps more skin than she's accustomed to. _Such funny hats most of the sports girls are wearing. Something about flapping hats? I should remember to look that up when I get home tonight._ Slowly, slowly, she relaxes as she tries to put Steve's sudden aggression and demands out of mind.

* * *

"Hey."

Steve hasn't even reached the refreshment table before a hand falls on his upper arm and a familiar voice greets him. Startles him in fact, as he'd been so wrapped up in his brooding that he'd completely missed the first two attempts at getting his attention. "You alright, Steve-o?" Cullen asks with a smile, though there's some real concern there. _Fuck, I hope and pray he's not high. He's gotten a lot freer with his using since he got kicked off the team. I don't smell weed on him. He doesn't use anything else... I think? He was just joking when he mentioned scoring some meth, there's no way he'd start using real drugs, right?_

"Yeah, yeah, fine. Everything going as planned," he says, trying and failing to keep a hint of the scowl off his face. "Just grabbing some drinks for my lady friend and me."

Cullen nods slowly, expression still worried. "Yes, Maribell... She's my second cousin actually. Did you know that?" _Her last name is Rutherford the same as mine and no-one uses noble last names unless they're part of the family. Not in the UP, it's just not done. Then again, as obvious as that is, Steve is... not really..._ Cullen tries to come up with a way to avoid thinking 'is a fucking idiot about a lot of things' but can't manage it before Steve is replying.

"Yeah, I knew. She got the better side of the family, no offense," he jokes. "Those eyes aren't Rutherford eyes, that's for damn sure."

Cullen snorts, arms crossing. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," he says, grinning with relief. "It's entirely from her dad's family; new money but becoming respectable. Took the Rutherford name, obviously, and so forth. But..." He shakes his head, lips pursing. "Actually never met Maribell before she enrolled here, but I did met her parents and two of her aunts on her dad's side— evidently he's the eldest, and the only boy of eight children— and they're all as, uh, blessed as Maribell." He hesitates then, glancing around and stepping closer. "About tonight..."

Steve's easy grin fades. "What about tonight?" he asks, a little sharply. _Don't you dare ask me to call this off, cousin or not._

Cullen looks around again. "Nothing, nothing. Just... you know, be careful," he hedges, then sighs. _Right, need to spell it out more._ "Don't, uh, don't chance any 'lingering effects', if you get my meaning. And unless you want to find yourself in front of a Sister exchanging vows, her rep as marriageable needs to stay shiny clean." He holds up a hand. "Not trying to get on your shit, just, you know, trying to head off any trouble for you."

Steve bristles a bit. "Look, I get it. I'll use the back door. It's tighter anyway. Anything else?"

"Gah, man, I don't need to know details," Cullen says, making a face. "Like I said, I'm not trying to cockblock you or nothing. Probably good for her really, getting some experience and all. Just don't want it going badly, for either of you." He shrugs awkwardly, feeling conflicted and uncomfortable with this entire affair.

"Don't worry, man, I'll make it good for her. She'll be craving my cock after tonight." He smirks. "Now, I gotta grab these drinks..."

Cullen grimaces. "Steve! Seriously, I don't want to hear—" He shakes his head as the other guy walks away. "You're an ass," he calls after him in a low voice, no anger in his voice.

_Nah, your cousin's ass is the one on the table tonight,_ he thinks, but he can't figure out how to make it sound more clever than that, so he just flips Cullen off over his shoulder and begins pouring punch.

When he gets back, he hands the glass to Maribell, smiling at her. "Sorry that took a moment, the punch line was long."

The young woman starts, jumping in her seat as she looks up at him with wide eyes. After a beat of silence, she flushes, pressing a hand to her chest. "Oh my word, you gave me a start! I seem to have gotten lost in prayer," she explains, not even noticing she'd used the 'southern good girl' expression. "It's just so interesting, watching everyone. It's like a silent movie, or a traditional pantomime, one showing a medley of life. I've come up with quite the intricate story about what's going on between Miss de Chalons, this girl I think I've seen on the tennis team, that girl's date and I think his brother? Or possibly a cousin. Plus, for some reason, this very polite and calm boy who I've no idea how is connected to the others."

"That's interesting," he says, meaning quite the opposite but trying to be polite. He hands her one of the glasses, taking a sip from his own. _It's not weed but it'll do for now._ "Have a sip, it's delightful," he adds. _Ugh, who spiked this? They did a piss-poor job of it. Is that red wine?_

_A sip? Of— oh, right, he went to get punch. Silly girl, pay attention. And Andraste forgive me, I must have sounded like such the foolish fluff, prattling on about my daydreams. What next, Maribell, going to whip out one of those stupid children's stories you used to make up? I need to pay attention to my date, starting with showing my gratitude for his fetching us refreshments._ "Yes, of course," she says with a smile. Glancing at the cup for a second as if unsure what to do with such a thing as punch, Maribell lifts it to her lips and takes a— Gagging, she just barely manages to not spill the entire glass of punch on herself. Only a third of it or so, and _mostly_ on the table instead of herself.

"What the fuck?!" Steve snaps, jumping back a little. _Stupid clumsy bitch!_

Maribell wants to explain, wants even more to apologize, but she's too busy trying not to vomit as her taste buds and stomach both _violently_ protest whatever that was she just put in her mouth even existing. Sickly sweet fruit clashes horribly with a strong astringent taste, layered with mint, burning, and sour, all combining into something far worse than any of its parts, and all of it clinging stubbornly to her tongue and throat. Eyes stinging with tears, she gags again, though thankfully she's managed to set the glass down.

"What the hell is wrong with you?! It's just punch!" demands Steve, grabbing her arm roughly.

The murmuring of those around them watching the spectacle grows and quiets at the same time. Maribell gasps loudly once more, then finally manages to swallow past the burning pain in her throat. "It's— it's _wrong_ ," she rasps out. "Maker, that was foul and vile and— did someone _poison_ it?"

Steve scowls, letting her go as he grabs her drink and takes a long pull of it. "It's _fine_. Quit being a baby." _Ugh, that's foul._

She gives him an incredulous look, too overwrought to act properly for once. "Fine? _Fine_? It tastes like vinegar flavored with corn syrup and then mixed with rubbing alcohol!" More than one student listening to all of this finds themselves noting that Maribell isn't exactly wrong in her description, even as many of them look down at their own cups of punch.

"What, you never had a drink before?" he snaps. "You're making a _scene_!"

"Of course I have! I've been given wine to sip during formal dinners since I was twelve and was allowed a mint julep last summer for the Derby open," Maribell protests, flushing as she starts to collect her wits, his words about 'causing a scene' hitting sharply home.

"I thought you were down," he hisses, keeping his voice low. "Carrying on like a child. I shouldn't have bothered."

Her flush deepens and she steps back a little. "You said it was punch, that it was—" She breaks off, feeling too uncomfortable to use his word even in this supposedly non-sexual context and not able to think of 'non-alcoholic' in her embarrassment. As she fumbles for how to finish the statement or what else to say instead, she really notices just how many people are staring at them. And how many more are avoiding looking in their direction but most assuredly listening anyway. Covering her mouth and feeling even more sick to her stomach at the shame of acting this way in public than she had from the swallow of spiked punch, she turns on the spot and flees towards the side exit of the ballroom.

Steve grabs her arm roughly, wrenching her to a stop. "Stop making a scene," he snarls, his voice low and threatening.

He doesn't see Beth and Teddy until they're on top of him. Teddy physically grabs his arm and jerks it sideways, forcing him to let go, as Beth steps between the two, a cold, furious look on her face.

"Don't you _ever_ grab a girl like that again," Beth growls at him, channeling her best Uncle Varric as she reaches for an empty, ruthless fury to hold back the roiling mass of fire that is **howling** for release. To finally be allowed to rush forth from her and **burn**. She's trembling, hands at her sides and fingers flexing in what thankfully looks more like anxious twitches than a mage limbering their hands. "Don't you _ever_."

Maribell had let out a soft cry of fear and confusion when Steve had grabbed her, and when set free by Teddy's intervention, had simply crumpled against the table, overwhelmed. She flinches from the first tentative touch from her new friend, but after a peek reveals the worried face of the enby, she flings herself into Teddy's arms with a painfully muffled sob. Teddy rubs Maribell's back comfortingly, making small, wordless, soothing noises to try and comfort her.

"Bitch," snarls Steve, but the jab delivered, he turns to walk away— toward the front door, not the side one, sending him away from the group. Of course, that means he nearly bowls Cullen over in his haste.

Cullen's hand snaps out to brace against Steve's shoulder. "Dude, what the fuck?" It's unclear whether he means the scene with his cousin or simply running into him, but he certainly sounds indignant about it.

"Your bitch-ass cousin, that's what," he snarls. "She blew up on me over some fucking punch." He glances over his shoulder, spying Beth and Teddy trying to comfort her, and adds, darkly, "Look at the crowd she runs with, no fucking wonder. A feminist and a crip."

"A fe—" Cullen hisses, looking around furtively to see if— _fuck, yep, Holly definitely heard him. Fuck. That's going to be Maker-be-damned everywhere by Monday. Maker-dammit Steve, you need to learn to keep your fucking temper!_ "Right, right," he mutters. "Look, tonight's obviously a bust here, maybe, uh, maybe we should take off. Go somewhere with less... adult oversight?" he suggests, hoping he can locate Samson right quickly.

Steve scowls, an ugly idea percolating. "You get Samson. I'm going to find our bitch."

"Our..?" Cullen frowns, not placing who or what Steve is talking about but, honestly, not caring either. He shrugs, not waiting for Steve to explain before stepping back. "Yeah, we'll met in the lot. I got a case of good lager we can start with, yeah?"

"Fuck that, I need a joint." He snorts a bit, but shrugs, already looking around.

* * *

_Well fuck everything,_ Cullen thinks with resignation. _No, seriously, fuck everything. First Florianne ditches me ten minutes after we get here in order to make cow eyes at Tony and fucking Doctor Terrance Crechy, supposed descendant of Anointed Clothilde of Crechy. That apple's fallen pretty damn far, given he was giving bull eyes right back. We might be off campus, but you're still a student-teacher asshole._ Scowling, the Templar trainee hesitates a moment before squaring his shoulders. _Fuck it. Samson will just have to deal with having a shit night too, just like the rest of us._

Coming to a stop a few feet from Samson, part of the table between them, he clears his throat, then speaks without waiting. "Dude, sorry, something's come up. It's urgent."

_Set it on fire, whatever it is, and dump it into space I don't care!_ Despite his thoughts, Samson can't help but look up at the tone Cullen is using. "What?" he snarls, not moving his hands from where they're at, much to Cullen's awkward discomfort.

"It's, uh, it's..." Cullen looks at Andrea pointedly, not that he has to move his gaze far. Samson just scowls at first, very unwilling to allow the abruptly embarrassed Andrea to get off his lap where he's been grinding his dick against her ass through their clothes. It had taken most of that doctored glass of punch, but he's finally gotten her honest enough to act on her sluttiness. Hadn't gotten around to leaving the ballroom just yet, so he's not gotten under her dress, but he'd felt her up very thoroughly from the waist down thanks to the table hiding things.

_Maker be damned, Cullen, if you don't get your ass out of here pronto I'm going to show you why they started accepting women into the Templars,_ Andrea thinks, scowling. She can't help it. She came here intending to put out. She's finally, _finally_ loosening up enough to get past her nerves. And now that she's relaxing, she's _horny. I don't care what your emergency is, you'd better—_

She takes a deep breath, really studying Cullen's face. "Is everything alright?" she asks, hesitantly. _Dammit. Someone must be hurt. Or something. Dammit!_

Samson growls his agreement, one of the hands rubbing Andrea's thighs sliding inwards so the outside edge of it is rubbing against her mound. "No, it's—" Cullen hesitates, then shakes his head. "It's kind of bad and could go really bad. It's—" He breaks off again, mutters under his breath, then strides over to whisper something to Samson. He has to repeat it, with how low he's keeping his voice thanks to Andrea literally being in Samson's lap, but once the message is received, Samson mutters something really vile under his breath.

Andrea leans forward just a little, pressing her damp mound eagerly against his fingers. But then, horrified at her behavior, she stops herself, sliding off his lap as if that's what she meant to do. "I think you'd best go see what he wants," she sighs. "Just... don't be long?"

Samson scowls, his cock throbbing painfully in his pants as he stares at Andrea's retreating ass. "Cullen..?"

The other boy winces, shaking his head. "I don't know if it's..."

"Fuuuuuuuuuuck!" Through sheer force of will, he keeps it low in volume, but the emotion is very plain. "Andrea, I'm so—" He swallows back his first few thoughts, ending up with, "This sounds real bad. One of our friends just got dumped, hard and dirty. I can't just..." _Dammit Steve! You're real damn useful and even fun to hang out with sometimes, but it's times like this I regret making you so damn dependent on me. Dammit, fine._ "I'm real worried about him, what he might do when he's," _so furious_ , "this upset and hurting. Look, I'll make it up to you, I promise. Next week, Friday, we'll have our own private Homecoming. Dining and dancing and... _dancing_ , alright?" He stands as he speaks, finishing with his arms around her waist, hands molding her ass in the way he's discovered gets her motor revved up real nice.

She stares into his eyes, her own glazed slightly, her lips parted as she imagines his cock pressing against them just as Nick had done. Then what he's saying registers and she sobers, eyes wide. "You're leaving," she says flatly, unable to believe it.

Samson scowls darkly, hands tightening painfully on her ass. "I'm not thrilled to do it," he sneers, casting a disapproving look towards the parking lot. "But I can't leave him to himself. I'll make it up to you, with interest," he promises, eyes glittering in scant warning before he crushes his lips against hers.

She moans a little into his mouth, her lips parting to allow _some_ piece of him entry, at least.

_Oh damn she's gonna be a good fuck_ , Samson thinks amidst his lust. _Fuck. She likes rough this much already? Yeah, she's gonna love anal. And..._ He grinds his cock against her pelvis as he realizes she might just be up for starring in some of his darker kink fantasies. _Not just spanking, or a few slaps. Naw, I bet she'll be down for some full on whipping. Maybe cut her some._ Chest heaving, he pulls away from her with her lower lip caught between his teeth, biting down hard enough that he draws just a little blood.

She whimpers. _I shouldn't let him treat me like this but damn if it's not hot as hell, and I want it worse than anything. Shit, what was he saying? Not tonight?_

Samson rumbles, half growl, half purr, deep in his chest and he starts to lift her up off—

"Samson!"

For a second, less than a second even, the Templar recruit gives honest consideration to punching Cullen as hard as he can, right in the throat. Make him choke to death in his own blood as he fucks Andrea on the table. Then discipline, earned through long, hard effort, kicks in and he pushes Andrea away from himself. "Yeah, I know," he says, voice a dangerous warning. He looks at Andrea carefully before adding, "I need to get her an Uber, make sure she gets home intact." _Mine, my cunt to fuck, my slut to use. Jamal won't touch her; he's a fag and he knows better besides. He knows what happened to that out-of-towner hippie fuck. Well. He has some ideas anyway, and that's even better._ "Wouldn't be able to live with myself, anything got done to her."

_The world is conspiring against me. It's official. The Maker hates me._ Andrea sighs, resting her head on Samson's shoulder as she makes a small mewling noise. _Alright. I guess it's home and my cold bed for me._

* * *

Homecoming is not going great for Carver.

It's not that he minds not having a date; it means he can lurk near the wall, drinking the spiked punch, watching everyone else have fun. Keeping an eye on the Secret Service agents milling about pretending to care about homecoming. Fretting about _later_.

Steve, Samson, and Cullen had split the cost of a hotel suite for _later_ , intending to take all three dates back and take turns using the room — unfortunately, not the same hotel the dance was in, but it's safer that way anyway. The suite has a bedroom area and a living room area, letting them hang out and drink while waiting for their turn— though if their dates were willing enough (or drunk enough) to go for an all-out orgy, so much the better. If Carver doesn't think about it, doesn't picture Maribell and Andrea and Florianne but just some random, anonymous girls, it's a fine plan. A good one, even. Nothing to do with him. He's just here for the music.

_There's no point speculating on homecoming king and queen. It's bound to be either Cindy Blacquin and Tony, or Shannon Marass and Cailin Theirin. Who cares which? Probably Cailin and Shannon, there's perks to being the President's son. Still, nothing to do with me,_ he tells himself again, spying Steve and Samson approaching, Cullen a few steps behind. _They look upset._

"We're leaving," Steve says without preamble. He's smiling again, his shoulders loose and body relaxed. His eyes are hard, cold. "You're driving," he adds, the unspoken 'because Samson can't anymore thanks to you' aimed like the weapon he meant it to be. Behind the three men, Carver can see Beth and Teddy escorting Maribell out of the dancehall. They're all huddled close to each other, making it hard to tell what's going on, but Alistair is trailing after them looking awkward and concerned. _Guess he's not coming._

Carver's gut twists, but he nods, silently, holding out a hand for the keys. He leads the way to the parking lot, to Steve's car, sliding behind the wheel.

"What's up?" he asks, quietly, as he puts the car into gear.

"Your _fucking_ sister," Steve snarls from behind him. In the rear-view mirror, Carver sees the ex-striker pulling out a joint and lighting it. Samson scowls, but doesn't protest the smoking. _His car_. The thought, the reminder that he'd lost his car, strokes the Templar's rage.

"Am I going to the dorm or...?" asks Carver, quietly. _Beth. What did you do?!_

"Hotel." Samson's voice is terse and he doesn't look at Carver.

" _Someone_ seems to have poisoned our date's on us. Stupid bitch pussied out when she tasted alcohol and threw a fit," Steve spits, glaring at Carver's head. "Next thing I know, your _fucking_ sister and her dumb darkie friend swooped in."

_The hotel? But we don't have girls— to drink, then?_ Some of the tension eases out of Carver, though not all of it. Not with Samson so tense, not with Steve ranting and Cullen silent and pale. _Just to drink and relax. I can handle that._ "Shit," he agrees. "Fuck girls."

Samson chuckles darkly. "Exactly so."

"What?" Steve demands, eyes already a touch glassy despite the seething hatred in them.

"Simple. Carver still owes us. More now, given how much time and effort he wasted with these shit dates. He's also got that shiny black credit card." He aims a cutting smile at Carver now. "I hope you're able to find us a whore tonight, for your sake."

Carver's gut turns to ice. "Y-yeah. I can— I can find one. I'll find one. For sure."

_Somehow._


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homecoming continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Rape, betrayal, misgendering, violence. This is the big one, folks; if you're trans I really suggest skipping this chapter. There will be a recap at the bottom if you need to bail at any point.

_How does one buy a whore?_ Carver turns the thought over and over in his mind in the short drive to the hotel, but he comes up empty every time. As he parks, he does the only thing he can think to do: pulls out his cell and begins googling.

Samson checks them in, and Carver hands over his card. As he heads up to the hotel, he sends a quick, discreet message to his uncle— the one with sense, not the one that sent him to a hooker:

**MyNameIsCarver:** How do you buy a whore? Like, securely? On short notice?  
 **Ad42DBx#@E2:** First step, be twenty-one. Second step, don't. Why are you asking?  
 **MyNameIsCarver:** It's Homecoming and our dates ditched us.  
 **Ad42DBx#@E2:** I can personally assure you that blueballs is nonfatal.  
 **MyNameIsCarver:** Come on man, just help me out this one time!  
 **Ad42DBx#@E2:** look, I do appreciate you reaching out to me with this  
 **Ad42DBx#@E2:** I'm going to call you, this isn't a text topic.

Before Carver can even read the text, Steve yanks the phone out of his hand. "Who the fuck is this?" he demands. "Call? Fuck no." He tosses the phone to Samson, who powers it off, then works to take out the battery as Steve prevents Carver from trying to get it back.

Carver struggles against Steve, trying to get free. "Wh— I was doing it, I was trying to get us a— lemmie go!"

"He was texting some fucker with an encrypted screen name," Steve says, tone ugly. He'd chased that joint with a few pills, as well as downing a bottle of lager and two shots of something since they got to the hotel. "Maybe a cop."

"Not a cop, dammit," snarls Carver, as a knock comes on the door. A moment later, Samson lets Cullen in— with more beer.

"Carver's sister poisoned our dates against us and now he's trying to snitch on us," Samson recaps blandly.

"Did not! I just— I was trying to— we don't got a girl."

Cullen sighs, having expected that but still having hoped anyway. "What do you mean we don't got girls? No luck with finding any—"

"Carver won't get us the whore he owes us," Steve snaps. "Rather snitch on us. So. We don't got girls."

Samson hums softly as he engages the chain on the door. "Girls, no. Girl, yes," he says slowly, studying Carver.

"I'm not a girl," says Carver, sharply. _No. Please._

"Close enough," Samson replies. "Got a cunt, got a mouth. You owe us, _Carly_."

Steve stares a moment, a savage grin spreading across his face. "Yeah... _yeah_. Ugly as shit but we can put a pillow case over her head or something."

That's it— Carver's breaking point. Backed against a corner, he takes a swing at Samson, throwing all his rage into the punch. He hits, fairly hard, too, and for a moment it looks like he'll prevail.

Then Samson backhands him, and the fight begins in earnest.

Carver is outnumbered, but he's scrappy. When he seems to be winded, he breathes deep and some of his reserves are replenished, letting him keep going. But he doesn't have the training the others do, and Samson has gotten at least second in the quarterly combat tests every year since he was a freshman. Cullen mostly hangs on the side of the fight, stopping Carver from backing into the bathroom almost by accident but not really sure what he _should_ do. So... he does nothing. He just watching, uselessly. It's not long before Carver is forced down onto the bed, kicking and struggling as his belt is undone.

Cullen pulls back then, doubts pushing through the fog of drink and group loyalty. "I'll guard the door," he stammers, as he backs away.

Cursing as Carver manages to elbow him into the ribs again, Samson glares at Cullen. "Pussy. Get us something to tie his hands at least."

Cullen growls out, "use your necktie," and then he's gone, into the adjoining room to stand watch.

It takes Samson and Steve another five minutes to get Carver's pants to his ankles, his arms tied behind his back and a pillowcase over his head. It also costs them more than a few bruises, a bloody nose from Samson and the tip of Steve's tongue. Carver pays in turn, the young man struggling to breathe after having his ribs cracked and his face bloodied and bruised. Eventually however, they force him face down and ass up, his bits on display. "The fuck? Maker, she's a freak. The hell is up with her cunt?"

"Cock," forces Carver out, through his bloodied lips. "Have a cock. Little but there."

"Must be her clit. Extra large... just means she'll enjoy this better," Steve decides after a few second's consideration, reaching down to stroke and tug on it. "Get the lube?" Samson nods, expression faintly unsettled at the sight as he moves to rummage through his bag.

Cullen sighs with a bit of relief, mishearing that slightly. "She'll enjoy this, yeah?" he calls, from the other room. "Girls usually do."

"Fuck you," groans Carver, voice muffled by the pillowcase.

"Never had any complaints before," Steve calls back with a laugh, still tugging on Carver's dick. "Feels normal. Just bigger really. Gonna make a real woman out of you tonight. Maybe if you're good, I'll even pop your other cherry," he sniggers.

_A real woman. No. Anything but that._ Carver lets out a low whimper as Steve pushes him harder against the bed, shoving his face into a pillow to muffle any noises. _Please. Maker, please, what did I do to deserve this?!_

* * *

Sniffling, Maribell gratefully takes a fresh linen napkin from Alistair to dab at her eyes. "He just— I don't understand what I did," she whimpers. "He was so funny and sweet all evening. I loved the flowers he got me and he— he— He didn't make fun of me once for being so out of place at my first dance. And then— and then— he just—"

"Men are scum," Teddy signs, scowling at Alistair.

"He is charming when he wants to be," Beth admits softly, rubbing Maribell's back soothingly. "But that's all it is, an act. You didn't do anything wrong. In fact, you did just right."

"But— it was just an invitation to hang out with his friends. We wouldn't have been alone," Maribell says guilty. "And he brought me punch and—"

Teddy cuts in, signing in short, curt motions: "The punch was spiked"

"But he—" Maribell sniffles again as she peers at Teddy's hands over the napkin. "He said everyone was drinking it? That it was fine..."

"Not me," Teddy signs. "I don't drink."

"Maybe he was—" Alistair's mouth snaps shut with an audible click at the cutting look Beth gives him. _Silent and supportive, got it. Steve, what the fuck were you thinking?_

"You did the right thing," Beth says firmly. "Teddy is right. Not all men all the time, but all men some of the time and some men all the time. Steve can put on a good show, but he's always scum underneath."

Teddy nods, tilting their head as the Prom Queen is announced: Shannon, of course, and the King her date Cailin. "Let's go home", signs Teddy, then, "fudge."

"Fudge sounds great," Beth agrees firmly. _We can have 'lessons' another time. Hopefully. Gods I want to get laid_. "We can watch stupid sci-fi movies or something too. Something brainless and silly to take our minds off... whatever."

Teddy glances at Beth out of the corner of their eye, but then, whether out of respect for Alistair being there or just better judgment, nods. "Sounds perfect."

"I can drive you," Alistair offers warily. "Drop you off. I should, uh, study. For a test. So I can't join you ladies."

Teddy thanks him with a single motion, then mouths "thank you" at him in the hopes he'll understand.

Beth flashes him a smile. "That's very kind of you, Al. Like Teddy said, thank you." Leaning against Maribell, she kisses her cheek. "Come on, let's get out of here." _I'll text Shan and apologize for bailing without congratulating her._

"Sorry about ruining—" Maribell blinks, then giggles when Beth gently raps her on the nose with one finger. "Don't apologize?" she guesses, smiling wanly. "Alright. Let's go watch movies and completely kill our diets." Leaning back against Beth, she reaches out to take Teddy's hand. "Thank you. Both of you. I've never had friends like you two. It's wonderful, a true blessing."

* * *

In a room upstairs at the Marriott, Lucynda Blacquin lets Anthony work the zipper on her back, stepping out of her dress. She feels exposed in her panties, heels, strapless bra, and mask; she feels oddly depowered, but her mask provides a barrier that lets her keep herself a step removed from feeling truly vulnerable. Thankfully the silver covering exposes her mouth, letting her drink, kiss, speak without interference. She turns, moving to unbutton Anthony's shirt, though she abandons the effort halfway through, letting him fiddle with his tie as she slides a hand into his pants. There she gets the feel of him, his hardness and warmth straining at his briefs, and she slips her hand inside, grabbing his testicles and squeezing gently.

_I cannot for the life of me get a read on you, Lucynda Blacquin_ , Tony thinks to himself as he finishes loosening his tie so he can draw it over his head. _You carefully lay signs out to invite me to ask you out, then you barely talk to me aside from telling me what suit to wear. Then you're witty and flirty and charming all night except sometimes I'd swear you're not talking to me at all. You're nervous when we first kissed, stiff when I held you, and now you're stripping like you can't wait to—_ His thoughts are briefly derailed as she cups him, his breath sucking in with a hiss. _Oh damn that feels good. Fuck her hand is— oh damn, is she a natural or something? Or has she— I thought her nerves earlier meant she'd never..._

"Hi," he says inanely, needing something, anything, to break the near silence they've been under since before even entering the hotel room. "You, uh, you don't need to rush anything. I mean, if that's your thing, we can do that sure, but I know girls like to warm up and all." He grins, and it's pretty much the first honest and open expression she's seen him wearing all night. "Truth be told? I like working up to the goal myself. No real hurry after all, right? Not like I'm paying by the hour or fuck I did not mean to even _hint_ you're a whore!"

"Good," she replies, not bothering to disguise her accent in the slightest. "Because I intend to fuck you tonight, Anthony Penteghast, so prepare yourself." Straightforward and direct has always served her well in matters of the loins, at least before when it was just groping and kissing.

_It's time_ , she tells herself again, her mind firmly made up. _It's time to see once and for all if I can do this or not. Kissing I can tolerate; he's an attractive man, as far as men go; he's clean, he smells nice, and he's desperate for it. If I am defective enough not to be able to create a child I will need to know now, before I am wed. It is time and past that I rid myself of this pesky virginity._

She squeezes a little harder, then lets go, shifting to grip his shaft and run her hand up and down the length. _This would be easier without the trousers_ , she decides, bringing her other hand up to unbutton and unzip.

_Holy shit, well, that's certainly not hard to read at all! I wish all the girls I've dated were that honest about what they wanted._ Tony grins broadly, then groans softly as she grips him. "Well damn, that's not getting any objections from me," he says breathlessly as he reaches out cup her ass and pull her close for a hungry kiss. "You— you're on the pill, right?" _She's Orlesian, so she's gotta be, right?_ "I got a pack of condoms but I mean, it's hella better for both of us without. And I'm clean, so if you are..."

"You will use a condom," she orders, not leaving any room for argument in her answer. _I am on the pill, but I have only his word that he is not diseased. And it's... odd. The idea that his fluids would be inside me. I don't know how much I really trust a couple tiny pills to protect me._

_Yeah, fair._ "Cool," Tony says easily as he slips his hand inside her underwear to stroke her bare ass. He kisses her again, lips firm and smooth, tongue slick and skilled as he teases her mouth. Humming softly, he breaks off to start kissing his way down her neck, towards her breasts. "And up," he warns her before lifting her off her feet to carry her to the bed. He kneels down on the bed next to her, then pauses. "Right, before I— condom. Blow job too or just when we fuck? I didn't think to get flavored ones so unless you brought some..."

The idea of swallowing his fluids making her slightly queasy, she replies, "At all times. I will adapt to the taste." _And that way I don't have to worry about the taste of him. Though the smell wafting from his trousers is intoxicating. The flavor may be acceptable. But it may not. I do not wish to leave it to chance._

Tony makes a bit of a face, but shrugs. "Hope you don't mind if I take the chance of eating you out without saran wrapping my tongue," is all he says as he shuffles forward so he's kneeling next to where she's sitting on the bed. Bending down, he resumes kissing her, more awkwardly this time due to the angle and her mask being in the way. He has to use one hand to balance himself, but the other moves to rub and stroke her thigh.

She leans forward a little, wanting to prevent him from leaning her back to lay on the bed. She'd rather be on top; her instincts are telling her not to get pinned underneath him, as she's much smaller and less muscular than he. As she kisses him, she resumes stroking his cock, feeling it harden under her fingertips, feeling some of the velvety softness give way to a more strained, firm feel.

Tony makes a pleased noise and tries to widen his legs so she can get a better angle. "You can squeeze a little tighter," he murmurs, "but make sure you don't pull the skin too far when you stroke." _Damn she's got killer legs. And... fuck yeah. Oh fuck yeah_. His cock hardens even more as he rubs her cunt through her thong, feeling the wetness there, feeling how smooth she is. _Maker I love sex. Oh dam she feels so damn good._

"Condom," he urges abruptly, trying to twist and reach the bundle of high-end condoms he'd tossed on the bed without losing contact with her hand or her pussy.

Cyndi smirks, glad she's taken the time to shave just today. _It will itch tomorrow, but it will be worth it. This first, I think, and then I will have him take me. Just so I can get used to what it feels like, how it twitches oddly under my hand._

To his credit, while not bare, Tony very clearly trims and cleans his privates. He's got pubic hair, but only directly above his cock, which is itself very clean. It doesn't take him long to get the condom on, and he displays his experience in these matters by doing so without stopping his explorations of her own bits. "Very nice," he murmurs, sliding her panties to the side so he can dip his fingers just inside her. "Have— I'm trying not to, ah, to assume either way or anything, so... Have you done this before?"

"Some," she admits. "Fingers, mostly. Hands." _More exploration with fingers in women than men, if I'm to be honest. Penises are... different._ "I am prepared, however, for more." _It isn't so dissimilar to my self-explorations, but the fingers not being my own is always a little strange. His are thicker, rougher than my own. Clumsier._ "Yes, that spot, just like that," she adds, as he susses out the particular place she likes.

"Bossy in bed too, huh?" Tony asks with a smirk, evidently unbothered by her manner, nor hesitant to follow her direction. _Fucking tight. Even if she hadn't just admitted it, I'd know she was a virgin. Which, holy shit, I'm taking Cyndi fucking Blacquin's cherry. And she's actually getting like seriously wet too. I've never heard anything but the most obvious bullshit brags about getting away with more than a kiss on the check with her and— oh hell yeah, that's a good gasp you got there, Cyndi. Fuck this is hot. Alright, I want to feel her lips around my dick._

Reluctantly, he moves back from her, still kneeing on the bed. "Well, oral is one of those things that's easy to do good enough at, even if it's hard to be great at. And thankfully I'm no Cailin," he says, snorting a laugh, "so you won't choke to death learning how to suck a dick. Take it slow and way, way, _way_ better to back off than to gag. Or vomit. Seriously, please don't vomit on my junk. Or, uh, at all actually."

She gives him a disgusted look that barely translates through the placid mask. "I do not intend to vomit," she says, and her tone carries all the weight her face cannot. Then she lowers herself, feeling exposed as soon as the back of her neck is displayed. Tentatively, she takes the head of his wrapped penis into her mouth. _Broader than I expected, but not so broad I have to really stretch. The nose of my mask will get in the way, though, if I'm not careful._

"Sorry," Tony says unapologetically, feeling that she can be insulted all she wants, it's a fair warning to make. "You can be firmer," he adds, pushing his pelvis forward a little in an attempt at getting her a better angle. "Especially with the condom on; it's an Ultra-thin, but it still dulls sensation a little." _Hmm. Not sure this is going to work this way._

_Firmer?_ She bites down, just a little, chewing a bit on the end of his cock.

"Better but less teeth and more lip? More tongue and suction for sure." Tony grunts, eyes closing briefly as she seals her lips just past the head of his dick and sucks down hard. _And hello!_ "Better. Very better there." Breathing in slowly, he reaches down to unhook her bra, ghosting his fingers along her back as he does so. It takes him a moment; her bra doesn't have the normal hooks, but an Orlesian clasp, something he finds he has to hook his finger behind and press outward. It's easier to do than unhooking a normal hook, but he has to find the trick before he can.

As she lowers her head to take more of him in, her prediction comes true— because of the angle her neck is at, her mask bumps against his stomach, stopping her from taking in the whole length.

"Here." The bra now removed— _Kind of a neat design_ — and with more ease than normal thanks to it being strapless, Tony moves his attention to the back of her neck to start working on how to unfasten her mask for her.

She jerks her head back, pulling away from him and his cock. "No," she orders. "Leave the mask." _Only my husband can see me without it, and then only during sex. This is not the kind of troth I wish to make with Tony, not right now. Not like this._

Tony doesn't fight her pulling away, though he does frown down at her. "It's kind of in the way," he points out.

"Deal with it. It doesn't come off." Her voice is authoritative, firm. "Maybe another position?"

Tony continues to frown for another moment, then nods. "Yeah, fine, sorry. Uhhh, hrrm." He studies her, then the bed, trying to picture various positions. "I think... given our heights and your mask... The way I can see it working best is me on the edge of the bed, you between my legs with your knees almost underneath me so your head is kinda tilted in the right way that— Or! Or actually," his voice brightens and he grins, a lusty, smirking grin.

"Or you could lay on your back with me straddling your shoulders. Facing you would make it easier for you to see what you're doing— want a pillow under your head— or me facing away from you. You'd want to either hang off the bed a little or put my shirt like here," he touches the base of his skull, "to adjust the angle of how my dick is going in. That position makes it easier to not gag, plus I can reach you while you, uh, while you work." He waggles his eyebrows. "And when I get off, I can just scoot forward a little and go right down on _you_."

She hates it. It's a position of inferiority, of weakness. But... _They don't play The Game in the UP. He's not trying to maneuver you into a weaker position so he can take photos or anything like that. He's just trying to get his rocks off._

"Straddle me," she orders. "Facing my feet. I will lay on the bed."

Within a few moments, they have assumed the position. The position allows his dick to dangle down into her mouth; he bends forward to reach her, his cock thrusting a little into her mouth, and she closes her lips on it, trying to slow the descent. She reaches up with a hand, worried about him hovering over her, and tries to focus on breathing with his dick in her mouth.

"Yeah, just like that, baby," he groans, loving every second of this. Not just her lips and tongue sliding over and around his skin or the way her mouth and throat seals around the shaft and grips, but also the who and how of it all. _Man, I did not think this was going to be in the cards, not ever._ He looks down the length of her body underneath him, open and bare to his gaze and touch. "You're picking this up quick."

_Almost no tits at all but her nipples are real cute, broad discs, long, hard peaks and they show up real stark against her pale skin. Definitely gonna have to suck on them while we fuck. Or afterwards, if she wants doggy style instead. And damn, look at the rest of her! Cyndi Maker-damned Blacquin, naked, wet and willing underneath me_. He groans again, cock throbbing at the thought, the rush of it. He might be the second best male senior as teenagers would judge things, but Cyndi is tied for first on the woman's social ladder and she has a reputation for being untouchable. _I get to fuck her. The first person to fuck her even. Shit. If she likes it, might be able to swing this again. Maybe date for the rest of the year. Be kinda nice to just deal with one girl, if she's on Cyndi's level. Need to get her to lighten up a bit... maybe getting laid on the reg will mellow her out a bit? Huh. Wonder how she'll sound when she cums? Be hilarious if she's a screamer._

Shuddering, he braces himself with one hand on the bed so he can lean forward and fondle her breasts. "Damn this is good. You feel so damn good, Sin," he pants out. _Heh. Yeah, we're gonna be committing a lot of sins tonight and they're all gonna feel real good._ "Can you take more in?" he asks, voice hoarse and the tempo of his short thrusts speeding up.

He doesn't give her a chance to answer; she coughs a little, gasping for breath, and for a moment panic grips her as she struggles to figure out his rhythm. Then she has it; she takes a short breath through her nose and lifts her tongue, lapping at the underside of his shaft as he thrusts into her mouth, nearly at the back of her throat. _This is... unpleasant._

"Oh fuck _yes_ ," Tony groans, fingers gripping a nipple and rolling it firmly. He's hunching over a bit now, breathing ragged and short. From her vantage point beneath him, she can see the muscles of his thighs quivering and tensing as he both thrusts into her mouth and restrains himself from thrusting down her throat. "That, do that, Sin. Fuck yeah. Oh fuck yeah. That's it, suck my dick, fuck yes, fuck fuck fuck." _Shit, I'm gonna blow in just another couple of minutes! Maker this is so damn hot. I need to— oh right, she asked me to— well, upside, don't gotta warn her or pull out if I'm wrapped up I guess._

Putting that out of mind, he redoubles his attentions on her breasts, trying to learn what combination of tugs, strokes, pinches and rubs get the best reactions from her. _Is she— oh good, yeah, her panties are soaked through. Not that it'd need more than a half shot to drench them they're so small. Damn, does she wear thongs that tiny all the time? Fuck it, Imma assume yes and picture her wearing them every time I see her from now on. Ohhhh fuck yes, that's it Sin, lick my cock, fuck yeah_. "Use your hands too," he suddenly realizes to say. "Just rub and s—s-stroke whatever. But stay away from my asshole, that's a 'no' for guys," he orders quickly.

_Hashtag not-all-men_ , Cyndi thinks in Beth's voice, smirking a little to herself. _Cosmo suggested many men love a little backdoor play._ She reaches up, one hand reaching to cup his ass, rubbing a little, while the other trails down towards her own cunt, stroking the outside of her damp panties in a silent suggestion.

"Oh fuck yeah," Tony breathes out almost reverently, eyes glued to her hand. "Rub that pussy, Sin. Show me what you like, you hot bitch." His thrusts have gotten deeper, little by little, but he's also slowed down a touch in an attempt to help her accommodate his cock. His hand is moving faster too, moving from one nipple to the other, caressing her stomach. _So close, so close. Oh fuck, that's her throat. Oh fuck yeah, she's an Andraste blessed natural at cock-sucking. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck._ He tenses, and Cyndi can see his testes quiver and contract slightly before he begins to groan loudly, pushing deeper into her mouth. He grabs her neck, squeezing very gently, focusing the pressure on the front.

She gags, then, as his cock hits the back of her throat, but thankfully she's eaten nothing today, so despite a little bile rising she manages not to vomit. Instead she chokes, struggling to breathe around his cock, struggling against her body's natural instinct— _air!_ — to try and make this good for him. Sensing her distress, he eases up, lifting out of her throat as she gasps for air, spending himself into the condom with a groan of pleasure. Guiltily, she laps the tip of his cock, breathing through her nose as she does. _Definitely never doing this again,_ she decides. _At least not from this position. Maybe if I was kneeling so I could pull back when he gets too deep._

Tony pants softly, body shivering, as he braces himself on both hands. As soon as he'd finished, as soon as he could focus well enough past his automatic retreat at her gagging, he'd pulled himself out of her mouth entirely, though the way he hunches down to recover means his wet, softening cock is laying on her chin. " _Damn_ ," he finally says, tone filled with appreciation and, strangely, respect, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh. "Damn girl."

Cyndi tugs her head to the side, twitching away from the damp mess. _Ew._ It's her own bodily fluids — it's her own spit, and the outside of a condom — but it still isn't something she wants sullying her mask. "Ready to return the favor?" she asks, in as husky a voice as she can manage. _Please let this be more pleasant._

_Hell yeah I am!_ He grins, not that she can see it, and kisses her other thigh. "Absolutely and happily, Sin. Feel free to be as vocal as you like; I love feedback." _I really want to hear you moan and beg and whimper. Maker, I want to hear you cum. I love hearing that shit and hearing it from you? Fuck. Yes._ He nuzzles her thigh, the faintest hint of evening stubble rasping along her skin, soothed with quick licks and kisses.

He only teases her for a moment or two before moving to the real deal. Wanting to draw things out a bit, not only to make it last for her but also give himself time to recover, he doesn't remove her thong for now.

And Cyndi gets her wish; even just that, just Tony's lips pressing against her mound, is better than blowing him. When he starts running his tongue along her slit, it gets even better. Not mind blowing, at least not yet, but it's as good or even better than when she touches herself. Tony isn't some sex god, but he's done this before and cares enough to have worked out to give his partner pleasure. Even better, he likes doing this, even if it's in no small part because he gets a thrill from being the one to cause those sort of reactions.

Pressing one last firm kiss on her panties, he pulls back briefly. "Mmh, you taste like your name," he murmurs as he grabs her ankles to bend her legs. With her feet now flat against the mattress, her ass is partly revealed and her pussy more accessible to his mouth. He doesn't take he thong off, instead pushing it to the side. _Love that look. Makes her look sloppy, rushed, like she couldn't delay getting her pussy out. Hotter than just naked for some reason._

"Fuck, girl, you have the sweetest looking cunt I've ever seen. How the fuck do you look as sexy as a desire demon and as prime and proper as Andraste in her wedding dress at the same time?" Wriggling forward as he talks— which thankfully moves his dick out of her face, even if it means it's brushing against her neck— he grips her ass with one hand, fingers in the crack, while the other hand snakes around her leg to start teasing her slit. Almost before he finishes speaking, he sticks his tongue out as far as he can manage and runs it down the full length of her pussy from top to bottom and back again. _I don't think I've ever wanted to fuck someone this badly before. This is the best fucking dance ever. She's incredible..._

* * *

"Hey, you're sure I can't help or something?"

Shannon scowls at the mirror, not that she can see her own expression right now. Moving the washcloth out of the way, she calls back to Cailin in a tightly controlled voice, "no. Thank you, but I'm managing just fine." _Asshole. Evidently I'll have to remember that when I demand he not cum in my mouth, to add he not cum on my face either. Ugh. Asshole_. Rubbing at her face again, she blinks a few times before trying to peer at it in the mirror. _Can you get pink eye from cum? Wait, do I even know what pink eye even is really? Whatever. And my jaw still aches. Ugh. Blow jobs suck. Oh wow, that was terrible._ Despite her foul mood, her lips twist up in a brief smile at the unintended pun.

"I could run down and see if their gift shop has like... eye drops or something?"

_I said I'm— Ugh. He's just trying to help, Shan. He feels guilty. And he should, really, I mean who actually thinks that stupid 'money shot' thing is real? Even if I had closed my eyes fast enough, why on earth would he think I'd enjoy having him spray gunk all over my face? What part of me suggests I'd like being all— all soiled like that?_ She huffs softly, then repeats, "thank you Cailin, but really, I'm doing fine. Just need to finish flushing my eyes out." She hesitates a moment, then offers, "but if you could, hang up my dress? I enjoyed the, ah, the excitement of having you peel me out of it," she gives an honest laugh, "but I'd hate for it to get too wrinkled."

Relieved at his quick agreement, Shannon returns to her first aid, taking another minute to get to a condition she's satisfied with. Grabbing a towel to dry her face off, she steps back and looks at herself as best she can in the waist high mirror. _Yeah, my right eye is def red now. I don't... think my vision is blurry though?_ She squints at the mirror, closing first one eye, then the other. _Nope. My nipples look just as defined and, uh, nipple-like with either eye so vision is good! And, of course, my breasts are sublimely good, as always._ She takes a moment, to check that there's no more cum on her neck or— _oh Maker, is there some in my— no, no, I'm good. My hair is fine. A bit tousled, maybe some sweat, but no cum. Ain't no Mary here, thanks. Way hotter than Cameron Diaz anyway, even before she retired. I think she retired? Whatever. She's cute and all but too skinny to match me and not elegant enough to match my Cyndi. And now I'm stalling._

Taking a deep breath, she starts to turn away from the sink, then pauses. Glancing at the door, she delays just a little longer to double check that she's still nice and fresh downstairs, then heads out of the bathroom. As she'd more than half expected, Cailin springs up from the bed as soon as the door opens. _Damn._ The young woman allows herself to look him over, unable to deny how appealing he is. _He's kind of boring, especially when he's showing off to his friends, but there's no way to deny he's seriously hot. That Russian junior might be sexier, maybe, but Cailin is hands-down the most..._ She licks her lips, not noticing how she's stopped to rather blatantly ogle his naked body. _Built. Damn those shoulders are... yeah. And the rest of him? Mmhmm!_

"—feeling better."

Shannon blinks, lifting her gaze from his hardening cock to look at his face. _Shit, he just said something and I totally spaced on it. And he's smirking, so he totally noticed me checking him out. Eh, fuck it. I just had that sawed-off baseball bat he calls a dick in my mouth and his cum all over my damn face; I can leer at him if I want to. And..._ "Well, you ready for your turn?" she asks coyly, trailing a hand down her chest, across her stomach, and then tracing the edge of her garter belt.

"Yeah?" he asks, grinning as he stares appreciatively at her show. "You can pick the position," he offers, getting a slightly puzzled look in return.

"I... assumed we'd— I mean, best to start with the standard for the first time, no? Me on my back, you between my legs?"

He glances at the bed, the shrugs. "Yeah, that's fine," he agrees, gesturing for her to get settled. Feeling a little disappointed by his lackluster reaction, she complies, taking care to keep up the show with plenty of hip-sway. Reclining against the pillows, she spreads her legs for him, knees bent, and starts to play almost idly with her breasts.

"Leaving your underwear on?" Cailin asks, brow bunching up.

"La, but don't you want to unwrap me?"

Chuckling, the male senior climbs onto the bed and runs his hands up her legs. He strokes her for a few seconds, making an approving grunt at the softness of her thighs, then hooks his fingers around her panties and starts easing them down. When he flicks them across the room, causing them to hook on a wall lamp, Shannon manages not to groan out 'boys, I mean really?' but only just. "Leaving the garters and stockings on, hmm? Like them, do you?"

"Oh yeah," he agrees, though he seems far more interested in fondling her butt and staring between her legs. _They look like they'd take for-damn-ever to take off too. And expensive, so you'll never stop bitching if I just tore them. Do look pretty good in them though. Makes you look all slutty in a fancy way or something. Nice..._ "Nice strip by the way," he adds, rubbing his thumb over the narrow patch of dark blonde hair accenting her pubic region. _Nice and damp too, that's good. Hopefully she's used toys before... Can't believe she's a virgin. I hate sex with virgins. She got used to my girth with her mouth okay, so maybe she'll be fine. Wish she'd been down for sharing some E first though, would have made all of this five times better._

"Thanks," Shannon says a bit breathlessly, trying not to squirm or come off as shy despite how incredibly exposed she's feeling. _Dammit, stop staring at it and start licking it! Feels so damn weird, you just holding me half off the bed and leering at me_. "So..."

Chuckling, Cailin sets her back down, then leans over her. She's surprised for a second, but happily enough responds to the kiss he starts. _Oww, right, don't open my jaw too much. As if I wasn't already second-guessing letting him score the full touchdown tonight, remembering how hard it was to blow him and imagining that going in my pussy is, uh, half terrifying, half thrilling, half silly and half— and hello!_ She gasps softly as he starts twisting her nipples as she'd already shown him she likes. With a pleased hum, she threads her fingers through his hair, deepening the kiss while trying to not open her mouth too much. _Hey, I'm not about to turn down a little making out before he goes down on me,_ she thinks happily. _He's no Cyndi, but he's a pretty good kisser._

Reaching off to the side, Cailin grabs a tube of jelly before refocusing on Shannon's breasts for a few moments. _Okay, nice and slow. Remember, nice and slow. She's a virgin, but she's getting real into it and I got lube. It'll be fine, just take the time she needs. Ugh, I hope she doesn't cry. That super kills my hard-on._ Lowering his head, he drops a line of kisses along her throat and neck, then captures a nipple between his teeth. An act that Shannon makes very clear she approves of with both a throaty moan and an arching of her back. Grinning, Cailin squeezes out some lube and strokes his dick a few times. _Best to smear some in her too,_ he decides, adding a bit more to his fingers before shifting so he can finger her while still sucking on her tit.

_Ooooh, that's— ooooh. Oh my! Oh my oh my! I like this! Oh this is much better than touching myself. Not as good as a vibrator, but very nice. I wonder if— oww!_ "Hey!" she blurts out, pressing her ass against the mattress to retreat from the finger that had scraped along her inner wall. "Did you not trim your nails?" she scolds him, wincing.

"I did! Last night anyway," Cailin admits, swapping over to rubbing her outer lips with the pads of his fingers instead. "Sorry. Is it... I mean, do you need to..?" _Please tell me you're not going to hide in the bathroom for another ten minutes... Girls always expect their first times to be all magical and shit. Things go wrong and you deal with it, you know? Heh, guess I should take my own advice. Get her wet, lube her wetter and go slow. Pause for a bit if she tenses or whatever and keep at it until we're golden...._

"No, it's fine," Shannon says, shaking her head. "Just stung; this is good though," she adds, wriggling her hips to make sure he knows she means what his hand is doing. "Maybe not use that finger though," she adds with a laugh. Cailin returns the laugh along with a smile, then settles back over her for more kisses and touches. Shannon is very nicely warmed up and wondering when he's going to move past her tits to get to the part she's been looking forward to the most when he shifts so he's directly over her.

_More kissing? I mean, it's nice but come on! I want to get off already dammit._ "Hey— mmmmm—" The hesitant start to her bringing that up is cut off by his lips. She doesn't mind more kissing, truly she doesn't, but she really does want to move things along to finding out what getting oral is like and— Her eyes pop open almost comically as she feels a good inch or more of cock push into her pussy. _What the fuck! What the fuck! What the fuck! I didn't say we could fuck! And he's not wearing a rubber! No, no, no!_ She squirms under him, hand slapping at his chest. He stops moving deeper into her, but doesn't move off her. Instead, he doubles down on his efforts to fondle her nipples and kiss her. When she stops slapping and instead presses her nails into his chest and pushes them hard into his skin, he groans and breaks off the kiss.

"What, I stopped to let you—"

_"Get the fuck out of me!"_

* * *

_I'm not going to come,_ Cyndi decides, sighing a little. She knows her body well. She knows exactly how she likes to be touched, how she likes to touch herself. She isn't always able to bring herself to orgasm, though she always gives it a good college try. She's not entirely anorgasmic, not like some women— _poor dears_ — but some days her body just refuses to near that peak, instead demanding some nebulous something from her that she just can't decipher or provide. _It's supposed to be easier with a partner,_ she bemoans, but she can't fault Tony's technique. It's just... his tongue is slimier than her fingers, and there's something subtly lesser about it, something that makes the pleasure feel just a hitch further away. Almost like the pleasure itself is slipperier, harder to sink into, harder to grip hold of.

"Stop," she sighs, releasing his thighs and letting him roll off her. "This is not working. Instead, you will fuck me."

There's a pause, one too long to just be him being distracted, before he lifts his head from between her legs. "What do you mean, 'not working?' _What's_ not working?" he demands, his pride stung by the implication against his oral skills.

"I will not reach completion in this manner. Perhaps I will via penetration." Cyndi sighs a little, irritated by having to explain.

Tony flushes a little, then swings off her so he can look at her face. "Why not? I mean, I've never had— I mean, not saying my technique is flawless or whatever, but— I can use more finger or something," he says defensively.

She sighs, barely stopping herself from rolling her eyes. "It happens sometimes. Do you wish to penetrate me or not?" she asks, a little coldly. _I find myself growing tired of this encounter._

"Fine," he says after a long moment, a scowl on his lips. His expression isn't exactly getting her into the mood either, not with the almost scornful look in his eyes. "Go ahead and kneel facing the headboard. Getting it from behind has the best chance of hitting your g-spot, if you're worried about getting off."

"Absolutely not," she bristles. "I am not your dog. Do it with me face-up."

"Oh for the love of—" Tony casts his gaze upwards as if seeking patience. "No-one seriously calls it doggy style, Cyndi, not outside of porn or— or drunk frat boys. But fine, if it really bothers you that much, we can rotate it. Either I can sit," he gestures at the easy chair in the corner of the room, "and you sit in my lap with your feet tucked along my thighs so you can bounce up and down. Or basically the same thing but with me laying on my back and you facing away from me. Using the chair means I can use my hands to either help get you off or help you go up and down." He smiles thinly, spreading his hands, then asks in an ever-so-polite tone. "Will either of those suit you?"

She studies his face carefully for a few long moments before her shoulders slump. "We can do your original suggestion," she says, more quietly, almost apologetic. "I forget that you don't play games in the UP around status. You're not trying to discredit me. You're just trying to help."

Tony frowns, studying her for a long moment. "...cool," he finally says. "I mean, it's cool that you... you know, explained. Thanks. Umm." He glances at the bed for a moment, then offers, "if you wanted, maybe we could like pile up some cushions for you to be leaning on? Most girls just rest on their elbows or even just plant their face on the bed, but, uh, that's kind of..." He trails off, not sure how to best finish that sentence. "Anyway, just an idea, if you didn't want to have to hold yourself up on your hands the whole time? Especially for if you get _distracted_ and lose your balance."

Within a few moments, Cyndi finds herself hugging a pillow, propped up on two more, her butt in the air. _This feels... exposed. Vulnerable. I won't be able to control what happens, not easily. He could do something different, slip the condom off or go for the wrong hole, and I'd be pretty helpless to stop it._

It's made worse by having just faint sounds to inform her of Tony's actions. Footsteps, rustling of packaging, then the creak of the bed. "Hey," he says softly as a warm, broad hand settles lightly on her hip. "You still up for this? I mean, I don't want to leave you hanging," he adds quickly. "Just— I dunno, starting to almost get the vibe you're only doing this on a dare or something."

_Not a dare. A challenge. And Lucynda Blacquin does not back down from a challenge._ "Of course. If I wished to back down, you would be aware. I intend to see this through."

Tony snorts, sounding amused. "Yeah, that's for damn sure," he agrees, patting her ass almost fondly. And then fondling it for good measure, since he's already there. "Almost the first rule of Student Gov; if you see Shannon's pout or your imperious stare, then you've done fucked it." He chuckles lightly, both hands now getting into their very close inspection of Cyndi's assets.

"Damn you have a nice ass," he comments, giving her a light smack to test the waters on that aspect of things. His other hand isn't on her anymore, but she can hear a swishing, sliding sound that paints a vivid picture. They had paused to talk and position for a bit, it's natural enough that he'd need to get himself back to readiness.

_Oh no you don't,_ she thinks, clenching up a little in case he tries to worm a finger inside. "Thank you," she says primly.

Perhaps he noticed and took the hint, or perhaps he'd never planned to do such a thing, but the next thing she feels is him run a fingertip along her slit, then probe just inside. "Zero complaints about anything to be honest," he adds with a chuckle, second hand returning to grip her hip. She can hear him move, feel the bed shift, as he shuffles closer on his knees.

"Round, taut ass atop these endless legs." He runs his hands from her hips down her to thighs, then back up to get a double handful of her ass. "Slim little waist with just a bloom of hip." He leans down to press a kiss on her back. "And I don't know what girl magic you use on your skin, but you smell great and feel even better. Mmh. Taste good too." With his new position, Cyndi can not only feel his legs pressing in-between her own, but also the solid warmth of his dick rubbing against her thigh as he shifts around.

"Moisturizer," she says, not bothering to explain further. "Boys don't think to take care of their skin, but the sun damages it." In truth, her stomach is fluttering with nerves, though her will is iron.

Tony chuckles softly, the sound warm and a touch husky in her ears. He presses another kiss to her back, this time further up, and one of his hand slides around her to stroke her pussy. "Well, whatever you're doing, it really fucking works, Sin," he murmurs. "Maker, you're so damn hot. Makes me almost feel like some kind of qunari or something; some coarse brute reaching above himself to defile some priceless work of art." His fingers find her pearl, pointer and middle finger sliding around it so he can gently squeeze it as he rubs her slit. "But that's not right, is it? You are a work of art, but you've chosen to invite me in. To invite me inside you."

He moans softly as he guides his dick into her. Her first reaction as he works himself into her is relief he hadn't tried to trick her; that he'd gone where he'd been invited to and that she can feel a slight tug and strangeness around his cock that proves he's wearing a condom as promised. _It feels so strange. So big! and so... tight. Almost a violation, feeling as if someone is inside me, where no-one is meant to go. And how odd he sounds, grunting instead of charming me with words._ Then he goes deeper and her flesh begins to protest, even as he gasps with pleasure. "'So fucking good. So tight. Fuck. Oh fuck Sin. So good."

As he pulls back, she feels it: a strange sensation in her belly, pleasure and a bit of pain mixed together. Then he thrusts back in, and she gasps aloud at the shock of it, the pain: somewhere deep inside, he's hurt her, hit some barrier that aches when touched. "Stop," she gasps, "Give me a moment."

"Fuck, right, sorry." Tony goes very, very still from the hips down. The hand on her bits gently lifts off her, giving her space, but the other moves up to carefully rub her back. "Uh, take deep, slow breathes and try to... you know, relax down there. Your muscles I mean. I won't move until you give the word, alright? Take it slow."

_Stop, I want to stop,_ she cries, but only in her mind. She takes a deep breath, then another. _It's not bad, not really. It's strange. Having someone inside me is... it feels... invasive is the best word for it. Invasive and a little painful. Relax. Try to relax. Take deep breaths. Maker almighty. The worst case, you can tell him to go ahead and hurry up, he won't take too long to finish and then it'll be over. You can handle this. It's bearable._ "Alright," she says quietly. "Go ahead."

As Tony resumes, Cyndi keeps focusing on her breathing, focusing on keeping calm and relaxed. It does seem to hurt less that way, at least a little, though before long she feels something like friction, an irritated rubbing on the inside of her. There is pleasure there, mounting over time; a different sort of pleasure, a new pleasure she hasn't felt before, building in her gut. She lets out a low moan, trying to focus on the pleasure, but it eludes her, dancing away as she tries to pursue it.

He speeds up; she begins to feel like a puppet or a toy, something to be used and discarded. Shame sends a blush to her cheeks as she hugs the pillow, struggling to focus. _I can do this_ , she tells herself again, and she forces herself to moan louder, to send a signal that she's enjoying this at least a little.

"Yeah, that's it Sin," he groans, his thrusts taking on a new depth. "Just like that. Moan for me."

She moans again, feeling ridiculous. _In for a penny,_ she sighs, and adds, "that's it, yeah, come for me," between her moans.

"Are you sure?" he asks, trying to hold back, to ensure she gets what she needs.

"Yeah, I want you to come in me, come on, you can do it, come for me," she groans, tightening her grip on the pillow. _This must look.... I am glad there is no camera in the room._

Tony speeds up, his balls smacking into her with a rhythmic thwacking sound, matched by the squelch of his rubber against her skin. Cyndi feels as though her body were far away, somewhere else, as she notes the small details: the scent on the air, the ding of her phone across the room as she receives a message. Anything but what's happening to her here and now. Anything but this.

With a final groan, he thrusts into her and holds still, pumping uselessly into the condom. Then he pulls out of her, spent, and collapses onto the bed beside her. He reaches for her, to pull her close; she pulls away for a moment, grabbing her bag and the phone within before she lays back into his arms. As he wraps his arms around her, she pulls out her phone, checking the message.

"Problem?" he chuckles, inwardly a little annoyed.

"It's Shannon," she says, frowning. _I'd know that ringtone anywhere. But what does she want?_ "She's gone home?" she wonders aloud, reading the message. "I... I have to go."

"You what? Come on, we have the room all night..."

"No, it's, I think something's wrong with Shannon. I think something happened with Cailin."

"Is she alright?"

"Yes? I don't know. I'll text you tomorrow?" Cyndi crawls over to the edge of the bed, pulling on her panties over her damp flesh and grabbing for her gown.

Tony sits up, rubbing at his eyes. "Shit. Do you want me to—-?"

"No, I'll be fine. You get some rest. I'll text tomorrow." Before he can put his thoughts together, she's dressed and rushing out the door.

* * *

Cullen paces in the sitting room, trying not to listen to the muffled noises coming through the open doorway to the king bedroom. _He's— she's— stopped whimpering. Is that good or bad? Maybe she's finished? That must be it, right? She must have enjoyed herself._

He looks up as Samson blows past him toward the door. "Where are you going?"

"Steve forgot the Plan B," Samson says with a scowl. "He's getting dumber and dumber." _Gets kicked out of soccer for using drugs, so what's he do? Moves on to harder shit. If he wasn't so useful, I swear..._ "Bitch is out of it, so Steve has her under control. Unless you're finally up for a go yourself? With the bag over her head, it's not bad. Nice and tight."

"I— maybe I will," says Cullen, shifting a little. _I don't want to— but if I don't, maybe they'll think I'm gay._

"Probably grab some lube too, Steve used damn near half the bottle to take her ass cherry," Samson says with a shake of his head. "Can't say I see the appeal but at least he can't knock her up with that hole. Anyway, I'm going to run over the store across the street. Want something to drink or whatever?"

"...I brought lager." _Do women like having their— no, I'm sure she did, those had to have been happy moans. Steve knows what he's doing. Right?_ "Just hurry up."

"Cool. I'mma get some jerky and chips. Gotta keep our strength up," he says with a laugh. "Lock the door behind me."

"Yeah, yeah." Cullen locks the door, taking a deep breath. _No, I have to... I have to do the right thing. I'm going to be a Templar soon. I can't hide in the sand when things get awkward._

He grabs a pair of beers, heading to the back and handing one to Steve. "Carver?" he asks, his voice a bit gentle. "You alright there, bud?"

"She's out of it," Steve says as he sets the beer down after taking a swig. "Think we overloaded her," he adds with a snicker. "You should have a go while I wipe my dick off."

"No," Cullen replies, scowling. "I'm taking the bag off her head. Let her breathe some." He reaches down to rub Carver's back, wincing as he flinches away from the touch.

"She's fine," Steve scoffs from the bathroom. _Should get a washcloth to clean her up a bit. Getting real sloppy_. "It's loose weave."

"She's not," Cullen says. "You said she's overloaded, she might be hyperventilating. Or she might throw up, if she's drunk enough. We need to—"

He stops as a knock is heard. "That was fast," he says, jogging to the door instead of removing the pillowcase. Something compels him to glance through the peephole, but he's glad he did as he pulls back and hisses, "Shit! It's a Qunari!"

Steve blinks rapidly. "What?" _Samson isn't a— fuck!_ Scrambling for his pants, Steve calls out, "stall!"

Bull waits a moment, then knocks again. Louder.

"Who is it?" asks Cullen, his voice oddly high pitched.

"Security," Bull says, voice as deep thunder. "Open the door."

"Uh." Cullen pauses long enough for Bull to pound on the door once more, glancing over to see Steve yank Carver's pants up. "Sure, one sec." _Get the pillowcase off, you dumb shit!_ Seeing Steve move to hide the pot instead, he gives up and opens the door.

Steve has just finished stashing the pot in the fridge when the door opens, revealing seven feet of combat-armour-wearing, gun-holding Qunari. "Move," The Iron Bull growls, a faint glimmer of red in his eyes.

Cullen moves, quickly, out of the way. On the bed, Carver wriggles a bit, trying to get his hands loose so he can figure out who the fuck the new voice is.

"Who the fuck are—" Steve yelps as he sees Bull and almost falls off the bed, taking the pillowcase with him.

Bull goes still for a moment as he spots Carver: blood-covered, bound, beaten Carver. Without hesitation, he shifts to the left, burying his fist into Cullen's gut and then charges at Steve. A moment later, both boys are laid out on the ground and Bull is cutting Carver loose. "Hey, it's alright, safe now. It's The Iron Bull, I got ya."

Carver swallows, then swallows again. He knows he should say something, should admit what happened, but then Varric would know and he can't stand the idea that one more person in the world knows what happened here tonight. So he just nods, giving a small, strangled whimper.

"Damn, they roughed you up bad," Bull says with a wince. "Can you drink? Swallow something?"

Carver pulls back, flinching, shaking his head before the question really registers. _Water. He means water. Probably._

Bull eases away from Carver, leaving him some space. "You ever had a healing potion?" Bull asks, showing him a small red tinted vial. "Tastes spicy and a little sour, but it'll take the edge of your injuries until we can get you to a proper healer. And the aftertaste is actually pretty good."

Carver grabs for it, fumbling to try and get it open. With Bull's help, he downs it quickly, letting the healing wash over him in a soothing, minty wave. "Thanks," he croaks. "Can we— can I go home now?"

Bull studies Carver for a moment. "We need to get you to a healer," Bull says firmly, though he keeps his voice low. "Way you're breathing says cracked ribs. Maybe outright broken."

"I don't want a healer," he whimpers. "I want to go home. The school nurse can see me tomorrow."

"No joy boyo," Bull says sympathetically. "I hate doctors myself." He hesitates, then murmurs very softly, "if I happened to know a mage healer..."

"Yes," he says quickly. "Uh. Uncle. You should call Uncle."

Bull snorts. "Texted him when I got here. Worried about you right now. You want to call him? Suspect Uncle Dude would really like to hear from you right about now."

Carver nods. "From the car?"

"Sure. You need to get anything before we go?" He glances at the two assholes on the ground. "And what about them?"

"They have a car," confirms Carver, not caring who or how they drive it back. "They're from school. Templars."

"I was more wondering if you want them arrested, crippled or missing," Bull says with a cold smile.

"What? No! They're— we're not friends anymore but— just leave them alone. It was my fault. I started the fight."

Bull gives him a flat look. "You started it. Really. Hell of a beat down for a fight between friends."

"We're not friends," he argues again. "I owe them money and I... I didn't... I threw the first punch."

Bull frowns, making a mental note of that factoid, but decides to focus on Carver now and deal with the rest later. _Owed them money for what?_ "Right... fine. If you have everything, we'll get out of here. Get you to a healer."

"Okay," he whispers, hanging his head. _Don't cry. Don't._ "Okay. Let's go."

* * *

By the time he gets to the car, he's feeling the pain, but he refuses to lean on Bull, refuses to be carried. Still, he can't hide the pain in his voice when he calls his uncle. "Unca Varric?" he whimpers, his breath hissing a little.

"Carver," Varric says with profound relief. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"A fight. I lost." He swallows. "Sorry."

"Is Bull with you? Do you need more help?"

"I'm fine. He has me. We're going to a healer, says my ribs are cracked."

"Ribs are— what the fuck kind of fight did you get in about prostitutes?" Varric demands.

"A three-on-one fight," he manages. "I'm fine. They thought I was narcing to the cops since you don't have a real username."

Varric flinches. "I— damn. I'm sorry Carver," he says softly.

"Not your fault. They're idiots." Carver lapses into silence for a moment before asking, "Unca?"

"Right here," he whispers.

"They said... they said they were going to make me a woman," he whispers. "They can't, right? They can't do that?"

There's a creak next to Carver, then a slow sigh as Bull relaxes his grip on the steering wheel. "No Carver. You're a man. Nothing and no-one can change that. Promise."

"Okay," he whispers. "I thought so but— okay."

"Hey— smartest man you've ever met confirming it, right?"

"Right," he agrees, weakly. "Just need Sis to confirm it and it'll be for sure."

Varric chuckles softly. "Smartest woman too? Not a bad plan. You want me to fly her out? Or your dad? Me?"

"No. I'm fine. Healer'll patch me up."

"You sure? Already have arrangements made to get people to and from. Just say the word."

"No. I'm fine."

"Alright," Varric says reluctantly. "What about your attackers?"

"Just some guys I know. Nothing serious."

"Names?"

"No. Leave them alone."

A long pause. "Why? If they were willing to do this to you, they'll do it to someone else."

"They won't. It was my fault. We have a history, it's my fault. Please don't."

"Why?" Varric repeats.

"It was my fault. I don't want them to get hurt anymore over me. Bull already hit them."

"It is not your fault," Varric snaps. "There is _nothing_ that anyone can do to justify someone raping them. _Nothing_. Repeat that back."

"They didn't," he whispers— lies. "If they had you'd have a point but they didn't, they just hit me."

"Imma hit them harder if I see them again," Bull mutters darkly.

"They only stopped because Bull _made_ them stop. You didn't deserve this. Repeat that," his uncle demands.

"I don't deserve to be raped," says Carver, his voice small, dull.

"Or to be threatened with it," Bull rumbles. "I saw what position they tied you up in. They were serious about it."

_I noticed_. Carver just nods. "Or threatened."

"Or threatened," Varric confirms. "Carver... I get you don't want to make a big deal about this. But you have to talk about it with someone. Doesn't have to be me. Or even family. I could arrange to get you a therapist. Discreetly."

"No. Please. I just— I just want to be normal. I've been seeing therapists since I was little, everything about me is different, I just want to be a normal kid."

Varric hesitates a second, then says, "your father and I see a therapist. So does Garrett. And Marian is going to be starting too."

"None of my friends do. My age, it's not normal."

"Would you know if they did? Given how much you wouldn't want anyone to know..."

"I don't know." _Stop asking hard questions._

"Please think it over."

"I will. I'll think."

_No, you won't. Not really. I should pass this onto Beth._ "Alright. Get taken care of, get some sleep. You can call me, day or night."

"Okay. Sorry again about all this. And... thanks for sending Bull."

"Never sorry. Not for asking for help from family."

_Family._ Carver flinches, muttering, "of course not," as guilt twists his insides. _The family I broke apart._

"We are family," Varric says softly, misunderstanding what Carver's tone meant. "I know... I know that things— that my relationship with Garrett might change things. Make them different. But we're still family." _Please._

"Yeah," says Carver. "Just... Nevermind. Of course we are."

"Alright," Varric says softly. "Get some sleep. Talk to someone when you can."

"Okay. Thanks."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recap: Beth and Teddy took Maribell home to eat fudge and recover from her scary encounter. Cyndi made herself go through with fucking Tony. Shannon bailed, refusing to fuck Cailin, but not before he got inside her just a little without her consent. Carver was raped by Steve and Samson while Cullen kept watch. While Samson went out to the drugstore, Iron Bull arrived, rescued Carver, and took him home to recover from the beating. Carver told Varric on the phone that he hadn't been raped, only beaten and threatened with rape.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homecoming is winding down, and all the various students are heading to their rest for the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: family violence, aftermath of previous chapter

It had taken Cyndi almost an hour to get an uber and get back to the dorms— the longest hour of her life. Shannon wasn't answering her phone; it had gone right to voicemail, as if she had shut it off after sending the text explaining that she went home and not to wait for her tomorrow to split an uber.

She's both pleased and irritate to find the front door locked. She takes a moment to compose herself as she unlocks it, making sure that she looks her most regal as she stalks into the front room, but spies nobody there, not even a light on. There's a light on in their shared bedroom, though the office and kitchenette are dim. Possible she left it on, but not likely.

Not with the soft sniffling sounds she hears coming from the back bedroom.

Cyndi stalks her way to the back, silent as a cat, head held high, mask firmly in place.

There's a second of doubt when Cyndi sees the empty bed and easy chair. The bedroom isn't big, with most of the floorspace taken up by the Queen-sized bed they share, the endearingly shabby easy chair, their two oversized dressers and a tiny fern that Shannon has to replace every other week because neither of them will admit they're absolutely horrid at tending to them. But only for a second, just long enough for Cyndi to see the partially open bathroom door, which she realizes is also the source of the light she saw from the living room.

The dim illumination from the mirror lights spills out into the bedroom, a strange choice given how little light they provide. Then again, the main light is tied to the ventilation fan, which can be rather noisy. Along with the light, there's a draft of steamy air coming out of the bathroom, though she doesn't hear the water running or smell any of Shannon's standard oils and lotions. There's another sniffle, then the lap of someone moving slowly in water, making it clear that Shannon is still in there regardless.

Normally this wouldn't be a choice. She'd pull back, change into her pajamas while Shannon is occupied, be there for her friend when she's done in the bath.

But normally Shannon hadn't run out on the President's son during Homecoming. Normally Cyndi was a virgin. Normal doesn't seem to apply anymore.

Cyndi pushes the door open a little more, the only warning before she enters the bathroom, looking down into the tub. "Shan?"

Shannon jumps, splashing water over the side of the tub. She looks up at Cyndi with wide, haunted eyes in a reddened, tear stained face, clearly not having had even a hint of Cyndi's approach. Her hair is wet and plastered against her head and shoulders, half of the elaborate up-do she'd had done for Homecoming still in place but looking all the worse for that. There's no bubble bath foam, no glistening of bath oils, in the water; instead just swirls of regular soap residue that don't prevent Cyndi from seeing Shannon's nude body. Her dress, bra and garters are tossed haphazardly on the floor, but one of Shannon's stockings is floating in the water of the tub, the other hanging halfway over the lip.

She's sitting in the tub, almost curled up on herself, with one hand bracing on the side of the tub and the other under the water against her body. If her body language, muffled sobs and everything else weren't screaming distress and self-disgust, Cyndi might have been able to convince herself that her friend was simply washing herself. Or doing another, even more personal, form of self-care. Shannon gapes at Cyndi silently, her mouth moving but not even a squeak or gasp emerging.

Cyndi crosses to the tub, kneeling beside it, uncaring if her dress gets wet. Uncaring if she gets soap on her mask, she leans in and presses a kiss to Shannon's forehead. "Shan," she says softly, almost a sigh of relief— whatever else is wrong, whatever's happening, whatever went wrong tonight, she's finally seen Shannon with her own eyes, and known her to be alive if not well. She strokes her roommate's hair, gently.

"C-C-Cyndi?" Shannon stutters, something the other girl hasn't heard since they were both six and Shannon's father had arranged for a speech tutor to stamp out the faint lisp and occasional stutter Shannon had endured. The tutor had been ruthless and cold, putting Shannon through hours of dictation practice in four different languages over the course of eight months. She'd lost the speech impediments and learned Chinese and Russian to go along with her native Norwegian and already mostly-learned English.

She'd also never asked her father for help again. She never really asks anyone for help anymore, not for anything of importance. Assigning tasks at Cheer or Gov, polite requests to pass things or directions, sure. But nothing real, nothing that reveals a weakness or lack.

"Cyndi?" Shannon's eyes glimmer with fresh dampness and she trembles. "I'm not alright." _Help me. Hold me._

One hand tangles in her wet, soapy hair; the other pulls her close, as Cyndi lays kisses on her cheek, her forehead, her temples, the corner of her mouth. There's no words, just affection, just plain and simple comfort.

Then she lays a kiss on Shannon's lips.

_Cyndi... Oh my Cyndi._ The tears continue to fall as Cyndi comforts her but they've changed. Softer, almost grateful now, they travel towards a weak but honest smile. Her eyes close, trusting her best friend implicitly, and she raises the hand that had been underwater to grip her shoulder for balance. A washcloth bobs to the surface, offering an explanation of what Shannon had been doing. One that has worrying implications, but perhaps still reassuring in that she wasn't doing anything worse to herself.

When lips touch lips, Shannon gasps almost soundlessly but keeps her eyes closed. They've kissed before, several times in fact. And a few of those sessions, all carefully labeled as practice for their husbands, had been rather intense ones. But this kiss...

When Cyndi pulls away, Shannon follows, recapturing her friend's mouth and immediately seeking entry with her tongue. The aggression, the assertiveness, of this action is sharply undercut by the nervous tremble and pleading whimper that accompany her kiss. _Better. Already so much better. Maker, why? Why make me feel this way, why make me to be like this and then...?_

For Cyndi's part, she is wrestling with her own feelings— feelings that were absent during her encounter with Tony, feelings she can no longer deny she holds no matter what she tries. Her hand strays to Shannon's chest and pinches at her nipple, and Cyndi nearly melts herself upon hearing the little whimpering gasp of pleasure that draws. She can think of nothing else but drawing more of that from her lover, seeking to make her whimper for good reasons and erase the bad.

With a careless splash, Shannon pushes forward onto her knees, right up against the side of the tub. She quickly grabs Cyndi's hand, moving it back to her glistening breast, mewling softly as her best friend takes the hint and resumes twisting and pulling on the nipple. Rougher than most might like, but the pair have gossiped and shared a great deal with each other and Cyndi knows that Shannon enjoys roughness though not outright pain. This is the first time Cyndi has gotten the chance to hear and see just how much Shannon likes it in person however. To see the way her eyes glaze over, to hear the hitch in her breathing, the way her head tilts back and arches her chest forward as if making an offering.

_Please yes. Please more. This more. Please Cyndi, please._ Sliding her tongue into Cyndi's mouth, her moans almost more tasted than heard, Shannon tries to edge even closer to Cyndi but is stymied by the tub. Steadied by how she's leaning against Cyndi and the tub, she lets go of the rim and circles her arm around Cyndi. She runs her hand up Cyndi's back, thrilling at the feel of the bare skin she finds there. _Oh Cyndi, yes. Touch me, take me, claim me._

_Love me._

As if in answer, the hand entwined in her hair slides down, cupping the back of her neck, pulling her in closer. _Mine._ The hand lowers, nails tracing firmly but not sharply against her back, until she's cupping Shannon's rear, gripping her firmly, the other hand still working on her breast.

_Yes, Shannon, yes, I will love you. I will make love to you. Damn the consequences._

She pulls her hand away, tasting the disappointment on Shannon's tongue, but only to slide it around the front, where she rests it gently on Shannon's mons, waiting as if asking permission. The kiss redoubles, a glad 'yes' on her lips, and Cyndi slips a finger down to circle Shannon's clit, drawing slow, lazy circles under the water.

Shannon mewls shamelessly, utterly and absolutely exposed to Cyndi in every way she's able to be. _This is what I wanted. It was never— It wasn't that C— that it was wrong, it just wasn't right. I wanted to be wanted for me, to be cared for and— and to be touched by someone that wants more than just to touch me. I wanted Cyndi._ "Yours," she whispers without reservation. "All of me forever. Just love me." Delicious heat builds and pools in her stomach as Cyndi strokes across her flesh and she moans again. "Love me like I love you, my Cyndi. My best friend, my partner, my beloved."

She moves her now free hand to the tub and uses it to push herself up to her feet. Water sheets off of her as she presents herself for Cyndi, showing herself not just as nude, a thing Cyndi has seen before, but _naked_. "Take me to bed?" she asks in a small, vulnerable voice.

Cyndi holds out her hand like a man asking a woman to dance, bringing Shannon's hand to her lips to kiss before leading her to the bedroom. When she hops onto the bed, Cyndi leans in and kisses her deeply, fiercely.

"This is in the way," she says, as Shannon spreads her legs. And so, as she kneels before Shannon, with only a moment's hesitation, she removes her mask, looking up at Shannon as she does so. Her face isn't the most beautiful in the school, but right now, it's the most beautiful thing Shannon's ever seen, despite the handful of pimples that mar it, despite the gauntness in her cheeks and the sunken look to her eyes.

_I haven't seen her face since she Debuted,_ Shannon thinks with wonder, fresh tears spilling over. "I love you too," she whispers, one hand coming up to wipe at her eyes. She tenses, just a little, when Cyndi leans in for another kiss, then feels guilty when her lover instantly pulls back, her face amazingly expressive without the mask to hide the worry and fear there. "Sorry, no, I mean, it's— Not you. I mean." Shannon grabs Cyndi's arm before she can sit up, can do anything that might lead to this miracle stopping. "Please don't stop," she begs. "I'm fine, I'm just n—"

Her word cuts off, her throat locking around them. _Just nervous. It's not a lie... Or rather, it is true. But it's not true enough, not for Cyndi, not from me. She has to play that damn Game with everyone; her parents, her sister, peers, doctors, everyone. But not with me, not ever. I haven't lied to her for a decade and I won't start now. Not even with this._ She'd prefer to bury this night, to just scrub the feel of him out of herself, to burn the memory to ash and just make it have never happened. But that's not viable anymore. "I'm not really fine," she confesses. "But every touch you give me, every time you look at me, I heal. I wasn't— it wasn't— He stopped." Her throat tightens, for a very different reason this time, and she pulls Cyndi closer so nearly every part of their bodies are touching. "He didn't mean to... He thought I— that I asked for— but I didn't want— I thought I wanted that, wanted him, but I didn't. I hated it. Every part of it felt wrong. Not like this." She gives a shuddering laugh, almost a sob. "This? You? Us? Yes. Oh Maker yes. Damn me, burn me, lock me in a Circle, I don't _care_ as long as I can be yours tonight."

"We'll run away," Cyndi whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of Shannon's left thigh. "We'll go somewhere they don't care." A kiss to the inside of her right thigh. "Somewhere we can be together, and damn both our families." She plants a kiss on Shannon's mound, then groans. "Maker. I want to taste you. Let me taste you."

"Yes," whispers Shannon, spreading her legs a little wider. "Please."

Cyndi dives in, lapping a circle around Shannon's clit, then darting her tongue straight across it. She tastes nothing like Anthony, sweeter than his salty fluid, thinner where his was thicker. She tastes like the salted caramels Cyndi craves on her birthday every year. She tastes like the heady, seductive promises she was making a moment ago, and nothing at all like the bitter knowledge deep down that she'll never keep them. _We have tonight,_ she promises. _We'll always have Homecoming. I'm going to make sure it's one she remembers._

It doesn't take long, not nearly long enough for Cyndi's taste. She could stay between Shannon's legs forever, but inside of ten minutes, Shannon's throwing her head back, screaming her pleasure to the ceiling, hands clenched into fists full of bedcovers. When she collapses back to the bed, the last of her twitching and shaking subsiding, Cyndi presses one last kiss to her vulva and crawls up to the bed to join her. She takes Shannon's hand, kissing it again. "Hey."

Shannon smiles at her, vaguely glazed eyes and slack expression making the smile come out sappy, almost goofy. "Hey back you." She giggles then, rolling over so she's laying half against, half atop, Cyndi. "More?" She beams brightly, wiggling her eyebrows. "More yes?" She trails a hand down Cyndi's ribs, crossing her waist and then stroking her thigh. "For both of us?" She giggles again, kissing her nose, then her lips again. Her hand finds itself cupping Cyndi's butt, noting the feel and weight of it with a sort of awed delight.

But Cyndi's face falls, her mouth the only piece that's still. "I cannot," she chokes out. "Shannon... my body, it... I tried, earlier. I won't be able to finish. My body is often like that, fickle and... and cold. You may touch me— please touch me— but I will not... is that alright? If I do not?"

A spark ignites in Shannon's heart; not desire, nor love; Defiance. Challenge.

"Oh noes, I might have to lap at your gorgeous looking cunt for a really long time," she says in a 'politely horrified' tone. "I might even have to play with you breasts or lick your ass or even, le gasp, kiss you lots and lots." Her expression shifting in a heartbeat to fierce and passionate and she rolls the rest of the way over so she's straddling Cyndi, their faces still intimately close. "Cyndi, my beloved Cyndi, my lady, my lover; listen now and listen well. I love you. I want you. I want to please you and hold you and be yours. If all I can offer you is the use of my body, the thrill of my touch and one or two begrudgingly yielded climaxes each night? Then I shall simply take that as a challenge to do better; but I shall be content and complete in the meantime. Do you understand me?"

Cyndi closes her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks at the feeling of being accepted, being radically loved despite her flaws. It's not a thing she's ever felt before; it moves her through tears and into a passionate kiss upon Shannon's lips, mostly to shut her up before she overwhelms Cyndi entirely. "I love you," she whispers, as she pulls back. "I love you. I don't think I've ever been truly loved before you, nor ever will again. Let me please you."

Shannon's heart stops at those three words, and she has to bury her face against Cyndi's neck briefly. She shivers and even that slight movement and the friction it causes between their bodies draws a soft gasp of pleasure from the still sensitized blonde. She swallows thickly and presses a kiss to Cyndi's pulse point. "Let you please me? I would let you do anything," she whispers, then offers yet more, the effort of doing so both effortless and terrifying.

"I want you to— I want you to... I want to give myself to you. I want for you to take me, to use me, to glut yourself on me, and fulfill every desire and passion we together can muster." She licks her lips, eyes flicking up to Cyndi's face for just a second. "I trust you, Cyndi. I trust you with every part of me. Tomorrow I'll be your partner again, Princess Shannon and all of that. But alone with you, in our bed... Andraste's Grace, Cyndi. I don't even know what I really mean, I just— I want to be yours. I want to give you myself and know you'll treat me well. I want to be weak and still loved. To just... surrender." _What am I saying? Why am I dumping all this on her so suddenly? And when I don't even understand what I want myself. I must sound such the fool._

"Then surrender," she whispers, and she falls upon Shannon, one hand squeezing and pinching at her breast, the other reaching down to slide a finger into her. This time she pushes hard, relentlessly, riding Shannon's leg as she drives two fingers in, then three.

Head spinning, both from being suddenly underneath Cyndi and from being suddenly filled by Cyndi, Shannon arches her back upwards and offers a throaty moan. Almost as if crafted in deliberate contrast to Cyndi, Shannon's lust is like a wildfire; she ignites fast and hard, but each burst of pleasure ends quickly. Fortunately for her, the 'grassland' of her lust is rather large, allowing her to reach burst after burst. So despite having just cum a few minutes ago, despite Cyndi having just started to touch her, she can already feel that warm, twisting pressure building inside her. _How is this so— Oh blessed fuck yes, just like ooooh— I don't understand why this feels so different, but I love it. I love every touch. I—_

"Love you," she whimpers, wide eyes blind and wild as she writhes and trembles underneath Cyndi. She doesn't attempt to do anything herself, instead letting her beloved control everything about their loving making. "Love you, Cyndi, my Cyndi." Her hands clutch at the bedsheet as she tries to hold still, though she can't stop herself from grinding her leg just a little, enthralled with the mere notion of touching her best friend that way, even if it's just with the side of her thigh. When Cyndi works her index finger in just a bit deeper and touches the base of her clit, the unexpected cut of pleasure draws a strangled yelp and a fresh coat of sticky fluid to cover Cyndi's hand. Unable to stop herself anymore, a flood of desperate pleas bursting from her that have more the ring of prayer than mere requests.

_More. Take me. Harder. Touch me. Kiss me. Yes. More. Love me. Need you. Touch me, please. Touch me more. Let me love you. Make me yours. That, yes, yes, oh yes, all of me, yes. Deeper, please, deeper. Please may I, ah, ah, oh thank you, oh Cyndi, yes, please, please. I need to touch you, please. Please let me fall apart. Do more. Take me. I'm yours. Always. Let me love you._

"Touch me," Cyndi orders, demands, with that firm Cheer Captain voice. "Touch me," she repeats, and it's softer, a plea. Shannon reaches up and drives her fingers home to rub at Cyndi's clit, and Cyndi keeps rocking, even as it becomes shaking, even as she loses her balance and drives her face home against Shannon's shoulder. Then she is screaming, her pleasure too strong to be denied, as wave after wave takes her, but not for a moment does she stop pinching at Shannon's breast, never does she cease thrusting in with her hand, not once does she slow her thumb across the head of Shannon's clit. Together, biting and screaming and shaking, they reach completion, until finally Cyndi collapses atop Shannon, and the two rest in the dark, covered in a fine layer of sweat, but finally, finally happy.

* * *

_What is that noise?_

The first Teddy knows they're asleep is when they're awakened by something they quickly come to realize is a default ringtone. _The phone?_ Nobody ever calls Teddy on the phone, for obvious reasons. _Whose phone?_

Something warm and soft shifts under Teddy's head. Something warm and soft slides across Teddy's stomach. _Two girls. There are two girls in bed with me. What did I do last night?! Damn, I'm a stud! Yeah, hot stuff, go get it girl!_

There's a soft whine from one of the two girls, who promptly burrows her face deeper into Teddy's chest as if to block out the noise. On the other side of that girl comes an annoyed groan, some fumbling, and a muttered oath. Finally the alarm stops ringing. A few seconds later, Teddy hears Beth asks, "whose ass am I holding?" in a pleased yet baffled tone.

"Mine," says Teddy aloud, then grins as they realize they managed the word. _Fuck yeah. This is the best way to start the morning._

Of course, memory isn't long behind their assumption: memory of cuddling up together to watch movies, memories that don't include the ending of The Toxic Avenger. Probably they'd merely fallen asleep in a cuddle pile, rather than what Teddy had initially assumed. _But still. Groping is still a win, hah!_

"Teddy?" A pause. A soft squeeze. "Damn girl. Nice."

Maribell whines again, so not ready to be awake. Despite her protests however, she's a fairly light sleeper and the conversation is enough to drag her to the edge of wakefulness. The expanse of soft skin her head is resting against, combined with the strange and exciting scent of girl around her, push her from mostly dozing to wide the fuck awake. Her eyes snap open and she looks up. "Ummm."

Teddy pats Maribell's hand, the words clogging up their throat again— but they'd managed one, half-asleep and feeling safe, which meant more were likely on the way in the next few days. _Finally. Usually I'm well through this part by now._

"Morning Bells," Beth chirps, determined to play this cool. _Underwear on, revved up, very mild hangover. Everything is fine. It's cool. Teddy's got underwear on and Bells has a shirt on. Me feeling up Teddy's ass is the most I recall doing. I recall giving them both foot rubs; and damn does Bells have a sexy moan. Not to knock Teddy's soft little gasps. Okay, even more revved up now. That was dumb._ "I'm thinking we order pizza for breakfast. Thoughts?"

_Did we have sex?_ wonders Maribell. _I'd remember having sex, right? I can feel Beth's breasts on my back! Her nipples are like rocks! And Teddy's skin is so soft and she looks so adorable and—_ "Pizza is a wonderful food source!"

Teddy gives a thumbs-up, still grinning. _Pizza sounds perfect._

Beth grins back at Teddy, giving one last appreciative squeeze before rolling over to the side of the bed. She groans as she stretches and fumbles for her phone. "Meatlovers and supreme sound good? Ooooh, and some cheddar bacon fries. And some chicken wings. Anyone object to spicy?" she asks, glancing over at them.

Teddy signs, "spicy good" as they try to stifle a yawn.

Maribell rolls over, away from Teddy and curls into a ball. "Did we— did we—" she squeaks.

"Did we..? Oh! No, of course not! After all that stuff about protecting you from your date and everything, no way," Beth says quickly. "Foot rubs and evidently some cuddling when we fell asleep is all."

Teddy nods, giving a double thumbs-up to try and reassure Maribell.

Maribell takes a slow breath, then sits up. "Sorry, I just—" She ducks her head. "I shouldn't have accused yo—"

"Hey, no, no, it's fine Bells. Seriously, after our talk, I don't blame you at all for having those sort of thoughts lurking around in your head." Beth smiles supportively. "Teddy, want to grab some waters from the fridge?"

Teddy nods, getting to their feet and casually pulling their shirt back on over the sports bra they slept in before padding to the fridge.

Maribell smiles shyly as Beth unlocks her phone. _The fuck?_ On the screen is an error message, but not one she's ever seen before. _'Call me, Varric?' Seriously? Can't you just text like a normal person?_ Rolling her eyes, she texts him as she heads over to her laptop to order food.

As Teddy comes back with the waters, Maribell takes one with a murmured thanks. A long sip later, the blonde frowns suddenly. "Wait. Did I— you spoke earlier? And last night?"

Teddy nods, signing, "I can speak sometimes."

"Oh," Maribell says, looking startled. "I thought you were—" She stops with a wince. "Sorry. I shouldn't pry."

Teddy shakes their head, signing, "it's okay. I have a-u-t-i-s-m. Mostly I don't talk at home but sometimes I can at school."

"Autsim?" Maribell echoes, mangling it a little as she fails to put the letters of the new word together properly. "I'm unfamiliar with that... condition?"

At the desk, Beth scowls as her phone starts ringing. She ignores it for two more rings while she finishes up her order. "Ugh, sorry, I have to answer this," she says, moving over to the far side of the room to avoid mixing conversations.

Teddy blinks, signing slowly, "it means... it means I'm different. My brain is different. Things get too loud and I have m-e-l-t-d-o-w-n-s and sometimes I don't talk and I don't look at people. I used to be worse."

"Kind of like ADHD?" Maribell asks tentatively.

Teddy nods, giving a thumbs up before signing "a lot like A-D-H-D."

Maribell nods, leaning forward a little. "Is there anything I can do to help? Or things I should know to avoid doing or exposing you to?" she asks, tone turning almost briskly professional.

Teddy leans back just a little, shrugging. "If I have headphones on, don't bug me. I use t-h-e-y now instead of s-h-e." Another shrug. "I'm pretty cool."

"Okay," Maribell says, visibly making note of that. "You mentioned meltdowns?" She glances over at Beth as she lets out a loud 'what!' but then focuses back on Teddy. _I hope everything is okay..._

"I haven't had one in a while," Teddy signs, glancing at Beth with a worried look.

"I'll look it up online," Maribell says, realizing she perhaps shouldn't force Teddy to explain all of this to someone she's honestly just met. "Sorry, just slipped into volunteer mode. I mentioned I helped at a nursing home, right?"

"Why didn't you call me last night?" Beth snaps. "Ugh! Where is he?"

Teddy nods, signing, "sign language."

"Right, yes," Maribell says, looking at Beth worried. The other girl is now pacing slightly, her free hand trembling in a fist at her side. Glancing back at Teddy, she signs, "should we ask about call?"

Teddy nods, watching Beth.

"Bye," Beth says tersely and hangs up. "Damnit!" she shouts, reaching for the door.

"Clothing!" Maribell yelps, causing Beth to freeze.

Teddy snaps a few times until Beth looks at them, then signs quickly, "what happened?"

"What? Oh, sorry, I— it's Carver," Beth says, clearly distracted and distressed. "He was attacked last night. Varric didn't give names but it had to be Samson and Steve." She _spits_ the names, fingers curling into claws.

"Attacked?" Teddy signs emphatically. "he needs help?"

"Steve?" Maribell says, looking pale and sick. _If I had said yes, if Beth and Teddy hadn't warned me..._

"Bull rescued him, he's over at their place," Beth says, running a hand through her hair. "Clothing." She stalks over to her dresser and starts yanking clothing out at random. "But it sounded pretty bad."

Teddy snaps again, signing quickly, "I come or stay?"

Beth hesitates, head bowing. "Both? Carver won't talk around anyone else but I don't..." she asks with a wince. "Varric ordered me an Uber, should be at the gate soon."

"We can wait outside or whatever," Maribell says quickly, getting out of the bed to dress. "Teddy, do you want to borrow some clothing?"

Teddy glances to Maribell and signs, "We watch movies, you go. Be here when you get back."

Beth nods. "Alright. Alright. Don't mention this to anyone?"

Teddy nods, moving to give Beth a quick hug for support. _Of course not. It sounds complicated and private._

* * *

_Well shit. That actually all happened. Fuck._

Samson slowly swings his legs over the side of his bed, hand pressed against his temple and eyes squeezed shut to force out the pain stabbing through his eyes directly into his brain. A whine slips out of the young man as he hunches over, mouth tasting like decaying leather and bile. "Fucking forties," he grunts, then winces at the sound of his own voice. _Okay, fuck, ugh. Blighted world, hangovers are the clearest proof the Maker has forsaken us_. Despite the pain, discomfort and nausea he's dealing with, he rather prefers to focus on them rather than give more thought to the sight of Steve passed out on the floor of his dorm room.

Unfortunately for him, the reason why he'd woken in the first place continues to be an issue and he's eventually forced to his feet. He doesn't bother with shoes, instead crossing the hall to the shared bathroom. A few minutes later, he staggers back into his dorm and scowls down at the still unconscious Steve. "Stupid piece of shit," he mutters, massaging his head. _Maker's cock, I want a drink to dull this down, but I need to be clear for this. Still..._ Frowning, he moves around his room— just his, as he'd paid off someone with the housing department to 'accidentally' assign a student that had withdrawn from the school to be his roommate— to get set up a bit. And to change his shirt, after he notices a bloodstain on it. _Fuck, hope no-one noticed that when I took a piss._

All that finished, he sets down a glass of brandy on the desk along with some chocolate covered espresso beans and bacon. _The perfect hangover breakfast, if only it included a juicy cunt for afters, heh._ Shaking his head— and then stopping himself right away as the pain kicks up in response. Grimacing, he sips at his own drink of ginger kombucha before kicking Steve's foot. "Wake up, asswipe," he snaps.

Steve lets out a low groan, though his isn't from a hangover— he didn't really drink that much, all told. He went in much harder on the Mary Jane, which burns away clean without leaving a hangover.

No, his groan is from sheer pain. Samson is top of his class, and Steve has training Carver doesn't, so the two of them were easily able to whoop Carver's ass without needing much help from Cullen. But that Qunari bloke, he handed Steve his ass, and Cullen too, while Samson was out, the lucky blighter. Everything hurts as he tries to move, and a night on the floor in Samson's dorm doesn't improve matters much.

"Fuck off," he mumbles, shifting his shoulders a touch, trying to get himself into a less painful position.

"No."

Blunt refusal given, Samson follows it up with some more blunt force. "Get the hell up, we need to talk. Now." Awake, rehydrating and focusing on a goal, the older Templar trainee is swiftly recovering from his hangover. It's not what his instructors meant for him to use his training for, but purging the built up toxins and restoring functionality from a hangover isn't all that different than fighting off a demon's poison. _Shit, Cullen isn't here. Why the fuck didn't he stay with us? Now I have to track his ass down and arrange our stories twice. Shit. At least he'll be easier to twist into the right mind than Steve._

"The fuck, man?" groans Steve. He tries to sit up, but the spike of pain in his ribcage warns him off, so he settles back down. _How did I even get home like this?_ "Piss off, you weren't the one beat half to death by a bloody Qunari, man."

"No, I'm just the one that had to get you and Cullen home," Samson snaps back. "Oh, and clean up the hotel room. And then the car. And then get you both a little boost to heal in time for classes Monday. All while drunk, all by myself. You're welcome." Samson runs a hand through his hair, looking very much put upon, then downs half his glass. "So fuck our night, agreed. But how about we worry about said night not fucking over our _entire_ lives rather than comparing our woes, yeah?"

"I don't see what's up your fucking ass," he grumbles, trying again to sit up after applying a little focus to push aside the pain. _Ah. That's how I got home._ "Who's the little bitch gonna tell?"

Samson stares down at Steve for a long moment. "Are you fucking retarded?" he finally asks, his tone almost more curious than anything else.

"Hey, what the fuck, man?!"

"He was rescued by a Maker-damned Qunari merc!" Samson snarls at Steve. "I think he has someone he can fucking tell!"

"Yeah and who will the cops believe, us or some stinking foreigner?" mutters Steve, shaking his head. "Get your head on straight. We've already had the worst of it."

"Cops, sure. School probably too. But what about the media? You think if this hits the public we won't be fucked over, if only by doubt and speculation?" Samson shakes his head. "Low odds, sure, as it'd need Carver to be willing to admit what happened. But none of that matters if that horned fuck pops up with a fucking axe in the middle of the night. He might be burned at the stake for killing us but we'll still be fucking dead. We need to run damage control."

Steve snorts. "You and your PR bullshit. PR won't stop him showing up and killing us, that's for damn sure. But what did you have in mind?"

_That 'PR shit' has kept us out of jail at least once, and you a few times. Ass_. "It just might, actually. We need to lay low for a while, see where things settle. If Carver runs back home or pusses out, then we're fine from those angles. The horned fuck is another matter. We need to start drawing attention to it. But _slowly_. Make sure people realize the Amells brought a heathen savage near the school. Start preparing public pressure to empower a play to force him gone."

"Did she? Bring him here? I figured he was some kind of local thug." Steve shrugs. "They infest cities sometimes, like rats."

"Yes, she brought him and some others. An elf and a few humans, but it's harder to get info on them." Qunari, specifically the grey-skinned and horned ones, do rather tend to stand out in the UP after all. "The Amells are only a low name around here, but they do half run Kirkwall and the Amell company..." Samson snorts, tapping his Amell brand phone on the table next to him. "Well."

"So what's your plan?" says Steve, with a scowl on his face. _Damn, I'm all kinds of fucked up. The ribs, my shoulder, my knees, my neck..._

Samson grunts, ego stroked slightly at Steve's tacit concession to his point, as well as his automatic assumption that Samson will have and lead their plan. "Alright," he says after a minute. "The end goal is getting rid of the brute and making sure the Amell family doesn't come down on us. I figure the best way to do both is to convince her— both of them actually- to go home and stay there."

"Means we can't have any more fun with her," Steve points out. _Damn, she had a tight ass. It was like heaven._

Samson rolls his eyes. "There are other toys in the world, you'll get over it."

"Any chance I can keep her and the rest of them can fuck right off?" he asks, with a grimace. "It's not like I have a girlfriend like you."

" _Steve_."

"Yeah, yeah," he sighs. "Best action I'll get all frickan' year." He starts rummaging in his pants pockets, pulling out half a joint left over from the night before and searching for a lighter.

"Not in my room," Samson says sharply, rising to his feet. He rummages in the minifridge for a few seconds, then pulls out a cold pack. A few tugs later he's tossing a cling-wrap covered bundle at Steve. "As for action..." He studies his friend for a moment, weighing and measuring. _He's getting worse, with the drugs, temper and insolence all. How much longer..?_ "Keep your nose clean for a bit, let things die down and I'll help you find something," he finally offers, deciding against picking a course just yet.

Steve opens the bundle, grunting as he breaks off a bit of brownie, popping it into his mouth. Takes longer, but it'll do me. "Alright," he says, shoulders slumping a little. _Samson's a hardass, but he does follow through. See last night, for example. And this._ "Yeah, alright, can do."

"Keep to half on that, it's Bluegrass," Samson says absently, referring to weed that's been fed lyrium as it grew. "Do you still talk to that Vint expat thug? The guy with the broken nose?" A sharp smile forms on Samson's face as he rests a hip on the desk. "I think I have an idea but it can't be connected to us..."

* * *

The Chargers have a house in town, so the Uber doesn't have to go far; it pulls up to a large duplex where Bull, Krem, Skinner, and Stitches are all residing. Seems like when they said they had a spare room, it meant Krem slept curled up next to Bull so Carver could have his room— clearly an arrangement they've used before, though it seems nonsexual in nature.

All of this means that when Beth pulls up, she's escorted to the smaller bedroom in the left half of the duplex, where Carver is laying on the bed staring up at the ceiling. He makes the effort to sit up when she enters, plastering a sickly smile on his face. "Hey."

Beth has worked herself into a right frenzy over the ride to the house, despite how short it was. Thankfully, she's worked herself right past frantic into a kind of deadly focus. Seeing Carver, seeing him staring and empty like he was when they were younger, seeing that fake, hurting smile... "Can I touch you?" she asks quietly. "Hand, hug, full cuddle."

"Hand," he agrees, holding his out to her. "They told you?"

Beth aborts a mad lunge for his hand, forcing herself to slow down half way to the bed. She sits down, then reaches for his hand. "Mmmh," she confirms carefully. "Like to hear it from you though."

"I'm not friends with the Templar boys anymore," he says, his tone a bit bitter. "We had a fight. Cullen, Steve, Samson."

"Goo— I'm sorry that you lost friends," Beth says, wincing. "Sorry. What happened?"

"A dumb fight," he admits. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Can you... talk around it? Please?"

He shrugs a shoulder. "They... they found out about me," he admits.

"Found out about what?" Beth asks blankly.

" _Me_ ," says Carver, hand trembling a little in hers.

"I don't..." Beth frowns, her brain not making the connection. _What would bother Carver this much? Or piss off his Neanderthal friends enough to beat him as badly as Varric said?_ "What are you—" _Oh._ "They found out about your— about your birth defect?"

Carver flinches, giving a short, jerky nod. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Alright. We don't have to talk about those assholes. Not like I mind just sitting with my twin brother, mmmh?" Beth smiles at him, heart in her eyes. "My loyal, gentle, strong and stubborn brother."

Still, he pulls a little away, his hand trembling gently in hers. He looks away, swallowing, silent.

"You are," Beth insists, tightening her grip. "You're my wonderful brother, the best in the whole world."

"Sure," he says quietly.

Beth puts on an overdone pout. "And..?" she prods expectantly, gesturing at herself with her free hand.

"You're great."

Beth snorts, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. "Oh my stars, such sweet words you poor into mine ears. I swoon!" _Come on Carver, give me a smile. Just a little one._

The corners of his mouth tease upward, just a little. "Drama queen."

Beth tilts her head to the side. "Queen... Queen Bethany. Queen Bethany the Great," she says slowly, tasting the words. "It has promise. Wanna be my Knight-Champion?"

The smile fades and he shakes his head. "Had enough fighting."

"Fair enough," Beth says with a wince. "So... watched some terrible movies last night," she offers for lack of anything else coming to mind. "Bells— Maribell— has been terribly sheltered. She'd never even seen Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman before!"

"Yeah?" asks Carver, content for now just to listen, to let Beth's presence calm him, her voice wash over him in a soothing, relaxing way.

"Gods, she's an absolute cinnamon bun," Beth says with a laugh. "Sweet and simple hearted with just a hint of spice and tons of layers." _And Maker knows I'd love to lick icing off of her_. Smiling at him, she continues to chatter on about the movies they saw and some of the random things they talked about last night. She leaves out the foot rubs, the waking up tangled together mostly naked and the sex related subjects.

"She sounds great," says Carver, rousing a little. "I wonder what happened with Garrett?"

"Besides her being seventeen?" Beth reminds her brother. "It sounds like she did something that got him in trouble by mistake. Maybe he found out about her being underage because someone gave him shit about it?"

Carver's hand twitches a little. "What's wrong with being seventeen?"

"Garret's in his mid-twenties. That's _illegal_ ," Beth points out. "And creeps."

"It's not that creepy. Guys always go for hot girls. You know. Younger girls."

"Speaking as a girl who is younger than the majority of men, no, it is _definitely_ creeps," Beth says firmly. "A glance, an idle thought or two, sure, fine whatever. But someone our age should not be with someone Garrett's age"

"I'm telling you it's normal."

"I never said it wasn't normal," Beth points out. "I said it's creeps. And illegal in a lot of cases. Like we told Bells last night, not all men all the time, but all men some of the time and some men all the time. You're one of the best, Alistair isn't bad either for that matter, but you're still men, with all the flaws that entails."

Carver pulls his hand away. "What the hell does that even mean?"

Beth blinks a few times. "It means that men have flaws," Beth says slowly. "Women have our own flaws, don't get me wrong. Just... different ones, mostly. Look, I didn't mean to start a fight, I'm sorry."

"You think I'm— if you think I'm _anything_ like Steve you have another think coming. I didn't think you were one of those _feminists_ , Bethany!"

Beth stiffens. "One of those feminists?" she asks carefully. "Is there something wrong with advocating for women's rights?" _Shit, wait_. "And no, I don't think you're Steve. Or Samson for that matter. That's like saying that— that— the ocean and a puddle are the same because they're both wet."

"I'm not _wet_ ," he snarls. "And I think there's something wrong with advocating for women to be put above men, yes! Not all men are scum, and you— why don't you go back to your harpy friends and leave me alone! You and your friends have done more than enough to me already!"

Beth flinches back from him slightly, eyes wide. "What the fuck Carver? Could you maybe listen to what I'm saying instead of spewing out Red Pill rhetoric? For someone claiming to not be like those two, you're sure acting like them right now."

"Get out!" he screams, and the door opens, Krem standing in it watching the pair of them, one hand on his hip holster.

"There a problem here?"

"Evidently my brother's decided to become a Red Pill popper," Beth snaps. "There's not a damn thing wrong with Bells or Teddy and they've sure not done a damn thing to you." She takes a deep breath. "I'm not sure what's up with you right now but I'm going to give you the space you clearly want. Let me know when you're done being butt-hurt about what you think I said and are ready to talk."

Carver reddens, jaw clenching in anger, his hand going to make a fist. He says nothing, but the glare he levels at her could melt stone.

Beth stares at him blankly, unable to process what he's doing. "C-Carver?" she whispers.

Krem steps between the pair, scowling at Carver. "Beth. You should go."

Carver rockets to his feet, both hands now clenched. "Sure, take _her_ side!" he snaps.

"You're— you're going to hit me?" she asks, voice broken as she stumbles back a few steps. _But he— he's my twin— I— it's Carver, he would never. I don't—_

"He's not hitting anyone but me," says Krem. "Eyes here, Carver. You want to hit someone, hit me."

He steps forward, and Carver snarls, "fuck you! I don't hit women!" Then the Amell lad shoves him; Krem braces, staying in Carver's face, refusing to give ground.

Beth continues to stare at her brother, unable to reconcile her twin with the violent, threatening person in front of her. She might well have continued to stare despite Carver's aggression if Bull didn't reach from the hallway to pull her out of the room. "Come on, let's get you some tea." _And away from the kid's freak-out. Worse off than I realized, poor kid._ He doesn't doubt a moment that Krem can handle Carver.

She's feeling a bit more herself by the time Krem comes out, seemingly unharmed. "Kid's gonna have a nap," he announces, mostly to Bull. "Let's get you in an Uber, miss."

"Okay," Beth says, her normal vibrant personality dulled. She stares at the half drunk mug of tea in her hands for a long moment, unmoving. "..is he okay?" she finally whispers. _I've never seen him like that before. Not even during our worst arguments. Not even after our seventh birthday. Never._

"I don't know," says Krem gently. "He's got a lotta pent up anger about something. Hopefully going a few rounds with him helped."

_Going a few rounds?_ "What? Is he okay? I mean, hurt?"

"He's fine. Only thing bruised is his ego. I pinned him, let him up, pinned him again."

Beth sags. "Oh. Okay. Okay. I— I just— why would he—" She finally looks up, eyes blurred with tears. "He threatened me," she almost wails.

Bull kneels next to her and carefully, slowly, wraps an arm around her shoulders. "He didn't mean it," Bull says, praying he's not lying. "He's hurt and scared and lashing out over it."

"Exactly so. Whatever you said hit a sore spot, that's all. This isn't about you." Krem hesitates, then offers, "I can tell when a man's angry at the whole world and takes it out on a loved one."

"Not exactly an uncommon thing," Bull says with a sigh. "Pretty sure everyone, man and woman and otherwise, has done it at least once by the time they're Krem's age, much less mine."

Beth sniffles softly, her brain eagerly latching onto that. "Your age? Aren't you Mister Krem's age?"

Snickering a little, Bull shakes his head. "Don't know much about native Qunari, eh? No, I'm eighty-four."

_Mister Krem? Cute._ "I'm just Krem. It's a nickname already."

"Oh. Sorry. I'm not sure how to... I mean, we were taught not to talk to our bodyguards, except to give orders but that's not— what should I call you?"

"Krem is fine," says Krem again. "We're more like family anyway, yeah? Distant family, through your sister. That makes you honorary Chargers, if I'm not mistaken."

That reminder snags her attention. "Right— you were the ones with Marian all summer." Her eyes narrow. "I want to know—"

Bull rises to its feet, effortlessly pulling Bethany along. "Come on, I should get you back to your dorm. Maybe hit up a Starbucks or something on the way through. One of the only upside to having a job in the UP; there's drive-thrus everywhere, with just about every type of food. Not _good_ food, but all types." Beth tries to protest, both leaving her twin and having her question ignored, but Bull cheerfully bulldozes his way right over her objections with equal measures of well practiced obliviousness and witty charm.

* * *

**SpeakHisChant** : Hey, sorry to text so early, just woke up and wanted to make sure you got home okay  
 **SpeakHisChant** : well I mean back to your dorm, not home  
 **SpeakHisChant** : oh crap, sorry, this is Cullen  
 **SpeakHisChant** : Cullen Rutherford? Your second cousin from the south branch of the family?  
 **SpeakHisChant** : sirry  
 **SpeakHisChant** : I don’t know why I felt the need to tell you that?  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : There’s a certain kind of virtue of being clear and through. Please do not fret over it, cousin..  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : And my thanks for your concern over my wellbeing. I did make it back safely and in good company.  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : I must confess, it’s warming to hear from you. I had been concerned I had offended you when you did not seek me out in return after I spoke with you upon my arrival here.  
 **SpeakHisChant** : Ah  
 **SpeakHisChant** : yeah, that’s to my detriment. I should have done that.  
 **SpeakHisChant** : Sought you out I mean. Wait. ‘in good company?’  
 **SpeakHisChant** : who ddid you go home with? what’s his name? what did you do?  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : Is that what this is really about?  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : I should have known better. Well, it’s none of your business who I do what with, cousin whom only speaks with me when it suits him  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : also, ‘their’ not ‘his’  
 **SpeakHisChant** : WHAT!?!?  
 **SpeakHisChant** : their names? Are you serious?  
 **SpeakHisChant** : Maribell, what does that mean?  
 **SpeakHisChant** : did you go home with more than one guy?  
 **SpeakHisChant** : Maribell?  
 **SpeakHisChant** : Maribell, what the fuck?  
 **SpeakHisChant** : wjy aren’t you answering me?  
-message cannot be sent-  
-message cannot be sent-  
-message cannot be sent-  
-message cannot be sent-

* * *

**TheAdorableTeddy** : u ok? U seem upset…  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : Ugh. I think ‘why are men even’ is the right response here?  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : mood  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : sry i left u with steve btw  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : u seemed ok & it got real loud  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : it’s fine, really  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : well, I mean, of course it became not fine but it’s fine that you had to find some quiet. I don’t blame you  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : ur sweet  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : i mean like personality wise  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : tho speaking of sweet  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : beth hid the fudge somewhere around here…  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : Teddy!!!  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : wat  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : she promised fudge  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : and we had fudge last night  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : right? I seem to recall eating fudge… I was a bit out of it, I’m not used to being up that late. And I think that sip of punch made me drunk  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : must have been a dream  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : also u were not drunk  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : trust me  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : are you sure on that matter? That foul concoction M. Caroll tried to serve me tasted very potent. I think it made me drunk.  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : positive  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : and I know I did not merely dream of fudge or I wouldn’t still have the aftertaste of sweet on my lips  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : oh my  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : oh your what?  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : #georgetakei  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : Who is—- one moment while I google  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : oh! I see.  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : wait  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : Teddy! I know what you mean with that gesture now!  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : that’s very lewd and you should be ashamed of yourself.  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : brat  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : yes ma’am  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : ma’am? Teddy, I’m not even quite of age as yet. It would be far more accurate to say ‘yes miss’  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : ew  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : that makes me sound like ur butler or something  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : kinda gross  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : what’s wrong with being a butler?  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : you would look very fetching in a suit and tie  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : ok while i do slay in a suit and tie  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : u might uh  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : want to crack open a UP history book  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : there’s some context here ur forgetting  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : sorry! May I hug you?  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : lolwut  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : uh  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : sure  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : lol  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : I truly did not mean to imply any such thing. I was thinking of Maxis, my family’s butler. Who is, ah, not of a…  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : sorry for the long gap, struggling for how to end that sentence.  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : to be frank and crudely blunt, Maxis is very white. I know that doesn’t erase the UP’s history, it’s just that I do not associate that particular role with such.  
 **GoldenBellsRingForHer** : nevertheless, I am sorry and hope that you can forgive me  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : lol its okay to say white ppl r white  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : anyway  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : didn’t mean to make this a thing  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : you could make it up to me by finding the rest of that fudge tho

* * *

**TheAdorableTeddy** : hey al  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : sry for ditching  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : it was a no boys club kinda thing  
 **SkyRock12** : oh hey, sorry I didn’t see your text for a bit  
 **SkyRock12** : it’s fine. I had a good night  
 **SkyRock12** : you had to take car eof your friend.  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : yah  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : thnx  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : ur a good guy u know  
 **SkyRock12** : heh  
 **SkyRock12** : not as much as you  
 **SkyRock12** : but thanks for saying it  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : am grinning irl  
 **SkyRock12** : not to pry & such but did things go ok?  
 **SkyRock12** : grinning?  
 **SkyRock12** : w/ MB I mean?  
 **SkyRock12** : she seemed real upset  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : dunno y but  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : u said i was a guy  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : like everyone sees me as a girl but im maybe not?  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : and the idea that i might be a guy  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : it’s niec  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : sry  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : u wanted to ask about maribell  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : she’s good now  
 **SkyRock12** : that’s great to hear  
 **SkyRock12** : sorry about what happened. I mean, that it happened, not that I did something  
 **SkyRock12** : unless I did do something in which case I’m sorry again for me doing something  
 **SkyRock12** : why did I hit enter?  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : ur great  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : i didn’t expect to have such a good time with u  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : i think we r probs better as friends but ur a really good person  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : 10/10 would friend-date again  
 **SkyRock12** : yeah…  
 **SkyRock12** : I mean, I had kinda hoped for, uh, you know, ‘woah!’ but yeah  
 **SkyRock12** : I did have a good time! but no woah  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : yah  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : u wante like  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : ‘homecoming’ homecoming  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : and like  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : wasn’t gonna be up 4 that tbh  
 **SkyRock12** : what? No!  
 **SkyRock12** : I mean  
 **SkyRock12** : I wouldn’t have said no? You’re really- heh. Well, ur screenname is spot on  
 **SkyRock12** : and ur funny, sweet, and really, really, really easy to talk to. and u didn’t make a bit deal about my being wierd  
 **SkyRock12** : but iwasn’t expecting you to put out or ne thing  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : o ok good  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : yah ur very sweet  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : if i wanted to be with a guy rn i could do much worse  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : like steve carroll  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : or friggan raleigh samson  
 **SkyRock12** : they’re not so bad. Sometimes. I mean they can be okay  
 **SkyRock12** : ne way  
 **SkyRock12** : last night was great. I mean, for me. And hopefully u until u had to rescue MB  
 **SkyRock12** : I’d totally go on a friend-date with u again ne time.  
 **SkyRock12** : actually  
 **SkyRock12** : do you like bowling? Or arcade games?  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : i love arcade games  
 **SkyRock12** : next weekend we’re both free, I know a hole in the wall style bowling alley that has an arcade.  
 **SkyRock12** : it’s not that big, jus like ten games but they’re real good ones  
 **SkyRock12** : and they do a solid peperoni pizza  
 **SkyRock12** : doesn’t have to be jus us 2 btw  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : that sounds great  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : i think beths having a really bad day  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : so i might invite her  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : if that’s cool  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : but yeah for sure i’ll be there  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : thnx al  
 **TheAdorableTeddy** : ur a good guy  
 **SkyRock12** : and you’re an adorable guy ; )

* * *

**SkyRock12** : hey, sorry to bug you out of nowhere but last night went sideways for a lot of people and I guess I’m just reaching out to everyone I know or something?  
 **SkyRock12** : so yeah, just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Not that I doubt you’re fine,but family should ask anyway, right?  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : family, huh? Now how is a little nobody like Alaister Guerrin related to the son of President Merric Therian?  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : no matter. Regardless, Cailin can’t come to the phone right now. Too bad. Someone’s gone and tired him out.  
 **SkyRock12** : uh what  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : this is Florianne de Chalons  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : Cailin’s too tired and naked to come to the phone right now  
 **SkyRock12** : that’s, uh, that’s neat  
 **SkyRock12** : I mean, iguess that answers my question about whether he’s fine?  
 **SkyRock12** : not family family. our dads are like brothers, grew up together, and so on  
 **SkyRock12** : wait, didn’t he go with Shannon?  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : didn’t he? ;)  
 **SkyRock12** : yeah? That’s why I said what I typed  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : you’re insufferable  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : hey  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : Flo took my phone sorry  
 **SkyRock12** : so she mentioned? Ne way, I was just  
 **SkyRock12** : well, you can read the backscroll  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : yeah. Uh, last night was weird, but in a good way  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : you doing ok? I am in the bathroom now. Need me 2 call? It’s weird having a secret brother, not gonna lie, but in a good way?  
 **SkyRock12** : nah. My night was actually pretty good. Cut short, but good. My date— friend date, not romance date— had to beg off to take care of a friend but it was good before then. And we’ve talked since and we’re gonna hang out again  
 **SkyRock12** : oh, you might want to scrub this chat, given, uh, some of the stuff that got said  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : whats a friend date?  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : i mean they’re a friend or its a date right?  
 **SkyRock12** : I mean we went to HC together but we’re not dating. So it was like a date but we’re not dating. So just friends  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : oh that’s  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : well I’mma be honest it sounds like the friend zone to me  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : but if you’re happy that’s what matters  
 **SkyRock12** : hey, not saying I don’t want ‘more’ and stuff  
 **SkyRock12** : just that I’m pretty happy with having made a friend instead. Better than not having either, right? Besides, it was the first date so not like I invested a bunch of time or whatever.  
 **SkyRock12** : Teddy’s really cool. We’re going to that bowling alley on Tyler St. with some friends of theirs next wknd  
 **SkyRock12** : what, uh, what about you?  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : not really into bowling tbh  
 **SkyRock12** : lol  
 **SkyRock12** : good 2 know but I meant your HC  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : it rocked  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : i suggest getting laid if u have the opportunity  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : just some brotherly advice  
 **SkyRock12** : uh, thanks? Lol  
 **SkyRock12** : I mean, I would go for it for sure  
 **SkyRock12** : just didn’t work out with Teddy  
 **SkyRock12** : glad that it worked out w/ Florianne for u?  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : for real for real  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : anyway, I’mma see if she’s up for seconds  
 **GoldenLionsRoar** : catch you later bro

* * *

By the time Beth arrives back at the dorm, Teddy's popped downstairs to their floor, grabbed a change of clothes and a shower, and made it back to watch movies with the similarly clean and changed Maribell. Teddy pauses the film right away as Beth enters, signing eagerly to her: "how did it go?"

Beth instantly bursts into tears. Teddy jumps up, folding Beth into their arms and making soft, soothing noises. Maribell is a bit slower off the start, not as mentally ready to comfort someone as Teddy is. Willing yes, but she's an only child and had no close friends growing up so she's unused to such things. She follows Teddy's lead, adding in the occasional, 'there there' and 'we're here' as she seen done in movies. The trio of girls end up back on Beth's bed, the still softly crying Beth in the middle of the other two. "Sorry," she finally whispers. "I just— I can't—"

Teddy can't sign while rubbing Beth's back, so they say nothing, making more gentle soothing noises instead.

"It's alright," Maribell offers. "We can just sit and cuddle for a bit longer. Cold pizza is just as tasty as hot after all."

Beth sniffles, resting her head on Teddy's shoulder. "It hurts so much," Beth whispers brokenly. "I don't know what to do."

Teddy strokes Beth's hair, eyes pleading to Maribell.

Nodding, Maribell twists around towards the nightstand, fumbling for a phone so Teddy can type. "We're here," she says as she does this. "Whatever it is, we'll help. We're here for you, okay?"

Beth bursts into fresh sobs at their kindness, but it doesn't last long. "Carver, he— he's hurt. He's— he almost h-h-h-hit me."

Teddy stiffens, anger sending their body rigid. They force themself to relax, to grab the phone and text, "you ok?"

Beth nods a little. "He didn't. He w-wouldn't." Despite herself, she can't be as absolutely, infinitely, sure of it as she would have been just yesterday. "He was just so angry. He was _crying_. He never cries anymore."

Teddy types out quickly, "What _happened_?"

" _Stefan and Samson,_ " Beth snarls, her temper suddenly flaring up wildly. Her skin warms, to a degree that would be easily noticed under normal circumstances. "They— Carver said something before, about— about them blaming him them all getting into trouble. The rumors about Samson's DUI and Steve getting kicked from the team? Last night they got him alone and beat him terribly. Varric said something about threats of worse— maybe maiming him? Prevent him from playing too? But our bodyguards rescued him first."

"Maker preserve," Maribell whispers, stunned. "That's terrible!"

Teddy starts to type something, but pauses, biting their lower lip. Finally, they type, "this is y i like girls."

Beth sniffles. "Girls can be bitches but this is—" She shudders.

"Yes," Teddy types, then adds, "i mean i _like_ girls."

"Like girls? Why is—"

Beth panics, just for a second, before habit takes over and she lies. "That's cool. Can't blame you, especially right now," she says carefully. "I'm very LGBT+ supportive."

Teddy hesitates, looking over Beth, then nods. "glad its not a prob."

"Of course not," Beth says lightly, though Maribell is just looking at Teddy with wide eyes. She doesn't seem angry or disgusted, mostly shocked.

Teddy glances to Maribell, then, putting down the phone to sign "okay?"

"What?" Maribell squeaks, then blushes. "Sorry, I just— how do you know?" she blurts out, the question important to her for no reason at all.

Teddy blinks, signing, "I just know. Girls are great. I want to [rude sign] girls."

"Oh. That seems, umm, clear, yes. Should— I'm very sorry, I find myself utterly at a loss on what is proper," Maribell says weakly, her accent and word choice shifting towards 'twang' as she gets flustered. "Do— am I to treat you as male? That seems wrong but I know not what else to do?"

"Treat them like Teddy," Beth says firmly. "They didn't change. They're not going to suddenly change. That's how they've always been."

"I'm just Teddy," Teddy says aloud, confusion writ large across their face.

"I—" Maribell stares a moment, startled at the verbalization, then slowly nods. _So many things I was told before don't make sense. I can only judge people by their actions according to the deepest, truest lore of the Chant. The Maker loved His children before we blackened the Golden City. And it was for love that He gave us another chance, for Andraste's sake. So loving people, giving them a chance... how can that be wrong?_ "You're just Teddy," she repeats slowly. A smile touches her lips. "Well, not just Teddy. Being Teddy is awesome, there's no 'just' about it."

Teddy grins, repeating aloud after Maribell: "Teddy is awesome."

Beth laughs, a real, honest laugh despite the tears still stubbornly dripping down her face. "Good to hear you, Teddy," she murmurs. "So about that pizza?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homecoming has gone terribly for Carver, but much better for Shan, Cyndi, and Beth, with a middling-bad for Maribell and probably best for Teddy. Now the weekend is over, and it's time for all of the students to return to their studies -- but for some of them, things have changed irrevocably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: aftermath of rape, self-harm, mention of sexual abuse of a child, misgendering and transphobia

Carver is a ghost the rest of the weekend. He shows up five seconds late to his first class the Monday after Homecoming, just on time enough that his teacher doesn't call him out for it but far too late for any of his classmates to try and draw him into a conversation. He's withdrawn all through the morning and when it's time for lunch, he goes to the vending machines, then finds a place outside instead of sitting with anyone. Most people would take that as a hint.

"Carver, your absence was noted and concerning," Owain says gravely as he sits down on the concrete wall of the flower bed across from Carver's own similar spot.

"Sorry," he replies, his eyes on his lunch— two bags of chips and one of peanut M&Ms— and his voice scarcely any more emotive than the Tranquil's.

"You appear to be harmed," Owain observes after a moment's observation. Without fanfare, he reaches across the gap to set a bottle of iced tea and a bundle made out of napkins next to Carver. They unfurl, revealing the curve of an apple and some kind of sandwich.

"I'm fine." He eyes the sandwich, eyes flicking to Owain to determine if this is his lunch or if he's bought an extra somewhere.

"I have already eaten," Owain says easily. "I was unsure what your preferences are so I did not customize it. It is turkey and swiss with lettuce. The tea is unsweetened but I have sugar packets."

"Thanks," he says again, reaching for the sandwich and setting aside his M&Ms. _It's stupid to avoid the caf, but... I didn't want to run into them again._

"We are attempting to form a friendship. Gestures of aid are an integral part of this process," Owain explains. "You are welcome."

"Are we?" asks Carver, his tone dark, bitter. "You're better off not."

"Please explain," Owain asks politely. "The information I currently have does not support that statement."

"Last time I tried to make new friends I fucked it all up. They got kicked off the teams and I got beat to hell."

"I am not on a team," Owain points out. "Nor do I wish to beat you anywhere."

"I ruined their lives and mine. Just leave me alone."

"I will not force myself upon you—" Owain breaks off, eyes widening at Carver's reaction. "I have offended. My apologies."

Carver stands, the sandwich in his lap going flying as his hands ball into fists. "Leave me the hell alone," he growls, and then he's gone, shouldering his backpack as he heads for the bathrooms.

When Carver finishes collecting himself, he exits the bathroom to see Zevran leaning against the far wall. "Come, we should speak with one another." He has a half smile on his face, more friendly than happy, and his voice is calm but firm.

Carver flinches, taking a step back. _I don't have to go by my locker before class after all— I could hide in here until the warning bell rings._

"Please. I can help," Zevran says softly.

"I doubt it," is the bitter reply.

"What have you to lose?"

"Everything. It didn't go well last time I tried to make friends."

"Perhaps you simply need to try with better friends."

"Fuck you," he mutters, but he doesn't sound as angry. More tired. More sad.

_Normally I would love such a set-up but I shall resist_. "Please," he repeats gently.

Carver hesitates, leaning against the doorway to the restroom. "Why do you care?" he asks, at last.

Zevran considers that for a moment. "A few reasons. One, you are Beth's brother and she is a good friend. Two, I think we could become good friends. Three, Owain is a good friend and he wishes to make up for the harm his words caused. Four... consider it an attempt on my part to pay forward a small fraction of a debt of kindness from my past."

"I don't want to be friends," he denies again, but then, a moment later, he adds, "but if you can help, fine."

"That still leaves three reasons," Zevran points out brightly. "Are you well enough to walk far? The soccer field is empty this time of day, so we can talk on the bleachers uninterrupted."

"Fine," says Carver, dully. As they walk, he pulls away to slip by his locker, swapping out his books before catching back up to the Russian boy.

"First of all, although I suspect you already realize this, Owain deeply regrets his choice of words. He cannot feel guilty or saddened by what he did, but he can and does wish that he had not spoken them."

"Cool." Carver glances away, settling onto the bleachers.

"It only helps a little, I know," Zevran allows. "It may help more later, when the rawness fades back a little, but not yet."

"What do you know about it?" grumbles Carver.

The elf leans back against the bleachers, staring up at the sun despite the searing pain in his eyes. "I was six. One of my earliest memories in fact, as far I can figure. I can still remember the slick feeling of helpless fear and hate. It turned to shame soon enough. Resentment as well. Confusion. Rage."

"Rage," Carver whispers. "Rage and shame."

"You can bury it, of course. Push it down. Ignore it and focus yourself onto something. Or be focused," he adds in a dark mutter. "But the old saw about time healing all wounds is complete chush' sobach'ya. Time doesn't heal a damn thing. Just hides it until it can ambush you. It takes more than time."

"I don't care about healing. I just want to survive."

Zevran snorts. "And how long do you think one might survive with a gaping wound?"

"Longer than if I stop moving," he snaps.

"Stop moving?" Zevran asks curiously.

He nods. "I just have to keep my head down, keep moving, and don't trust anyone. That's how you survive this sort of thing."

"...what are you basing this plan on, if I might ask?"

"Experience."

"And that worked?" Zevran hums softly. "People are different I suppose. Still. That sounds very... lonely, if nothing else. Trusting no-one, having no friends."

"All I need is..." But he can't finish the sentence. All he can see is Beth's terrified eyes as his mouth runs dry.

Zevran waits patiently for a moment. "If you are able, I would listen," he finally offers as kindly as he can.

"I almost hit Beth," he admits, in a small voice. "She was afraid of me. My own twin."

Zevran tenses internally, though not a hint of it shows on his face or body. "Why?" he asks gently. _I suspect I know but... What is that expression, about making guesses makes you an asshole?_

"I was just so mad," he whispers. "I needed her to stop."

"Mad at her?"

"Mad at everything."

"That is a cheap answer. What are you mad at? Face the emotion down— you are the master of your emotions, do not let them control you," Zevran says, voice suddenly sharp and authoritative.

"Alright, mad at her. Her and her damn feminist friends. It's their fault I got beat up."

"Go on."

"They— look, it was homecoming. _Everyone_ gets laid after homecoming. I arranged dates for my friends, but Beth and her friends told Maribell a bunch of lies about Steve until she was scared of him and turned him down. So he blamed me and I got my ass beat."

_Steve? Templar named—_ "Do you mean Stefan Carrol? Bully, addict, date-rapist and general asshole? I fail to see why any lies would be needed for any woman to fear him."

"He's not like that, he's a Templar for Maker's sake. Just because he has medical marijuana doesn't make him an addict!"

_No, being a Templar makes him an addict, by definition_. "I cannot help but notice that you refute only the least of his flaws," he notes instead.

"He's not a bully or an asshole, and he doesn't..." This last charge makes Carver falter a second or two before he rallies. "He's not like that."

"Oh? I had not realized that he had an identical twin. You yourself have admitted that he both seriously injured and violated you in some fashion, just because a woman exercised to her right to say no."

"He didn't— I wasn't—" stammers Carver, anger and fear tinging his words.

"Being violated, like sex, does not require penetration," Zevran says gently. "Being stripped, a single touch, even just words in the right context is enough."

"I'm not a girl," he snarls, out of nowhere. "I'm not! That kind of shit happens to girls but I'm not one, no matter what they say."

"Nor am I female. And yet," Zevran shrugs. The gesture is smooth despite his reclining position, just like nearly every movement the elf makes. "Men can be raped as well. Or molested."

Carver flinches at the word 'rape'. "What do you want?" he asks, his voice dull, his anger fading rapidly. "I'll do your homework, whatever it takes not to tell."

That finally causes Zevran to look at Carver. "What?"

"Not to tell about all this. What do you want? Money? Favors?"

"I am not—" Zevran takes a slow breath. _He's hurting and feeling betrayed. Trust issues is an understatement. Spell it out._ "I was raped, repeatedly by men and women both, for seven years. I would sooner burn myself alive with naught but matches than hurt someone with their own violation."

Carver is silent for a time, looking down at his lap. Finally, he says quietly, "They said they'd make a woman out of me. When they did it, I mean. I don't— I'm scared. I don't want to be a woman. I know it's stupid, nobody can make me a woman, but..."

"You are correct. You are yourself. People can be broken and forced into a new shape but that does not mean you are different anymore than," he fumbles for a moment. "Any more than shaping mud into a loaf of bread makes it food or shattering a priceless statue into gravel and shaping it into a mattress would make it soft." He frowns. "Forgive me, my English is good but I sometimes struggle when emotional."

"No, that made sense," says Carver quietly, as the warning bell rings to get to class. "You won't tell anyone? Promise?"

Zevran studies Carver for a moment. "I promise. May I ask a promise back? Not in exchange, just... Talk to me? We need not be friends if you are not ready for such. But, ah, what is saying? No man is an island?"

"I— I don't know. I'm not ready to talk about it. I just... I just want to forget it happened for a bit. But I can try I guess."

"Then for now we can talk about other things as well. Speak what you can of your suffering and we can digress then," Zevran replies, rising to his feet.

"Alright," he says quietly. "And... thanks."

Zevran inclines his head. "You are very welcome." Reaching down, he offers a hand up to the other young man. "Alas, we must return to our dreary imprisonment of academic indoctrination."

* * *

Cullen is less sure of himself the more time goes on.

At first he chalked it up to a poor night's sleep, to sobering up. The blond templar tossed and turned all night after getting patched up by Samson, after doing what he could for his own injuries with Templar techniques. That he assumes was because of the Qunari, because he was likely to get in trouble anyway. His dreams he forgets as soon as he wakes, so what's the point dwelling? A little lost sleep won't hurt him.

He hoped to see Carver at lunch. Carver's failing to turn up bothers Cullen, sits uneasy on his soul. Day two and he knows it's no coincidence: Carver's avoiding them.

Why would Carver be avoiding them if she (he?) enjoyed it?

Finally, at the dinner hour, Cullen gives in. _I have to tell someone_ , he decides, and so he heads to the chapel, slipping into the confessional booth and crossing himself. "Forgive me, Sister, for I have sinned— or maybe I'm about to sin? I'm not certain anymore."

There's a few seconds of waiting before the tiny window opens. A soft voice with a Southern accent answers him, "Andraste's mercy is boundless, my child. Unburden yourself and find both wisdom and forgiveness."

"Thank you," he says, nodding a little. "I promised not to tell, but I think I have to. I think... I think my friend might have raped someone."

"That is a very serious sin," the Sister replies after a moment. "One more serious than a vow to a mortal, even a friend. Go on."

"It's all confusing— we were drinking, and..." He hesitates, then, not seeming to notice he'd confessed to underaged drinking. "He said she enjoyed it. But I don't think she did. I don't think she wanted to do that. He said all girls play hard to get, they pretend not to want it, but I don't think she was playing games. I'm not sure. I just... I can't get the sound of her whimpering out of my head. The more I think on it, the less sure I am that it was happy whimpering. Maybe someone can check on her? Or something?"

"That is a very tangled mess, young one," she says after digesting all that for a moment. "Did you not ask the young woman herself? They are both students as well, correct?"

"Yes, but, well... she used to sit with us at lunch, and she doesn't anymore. I couldn't find her. It's only been a couple days, maybe I should try harder, but..."

"That does seem to indict that she at the very least regrets what occurred," the Sister points out gently. "Were they intimate before this event? Is this something that has occurred before, for either of them?"

"No. Um, and he beat her up first," he admits. "I guess I should say, they got into a fight, but he won. She's just not very big and she's not in Templar lessons and..." _I should say it was two on one. But... Samson seemed... He said he was very drunk. That he only followed Steve's lead. I'd hate to get him in trouble if Steve took advantage of his being drunk too, shouldn't I? And I don't know for sure Samson had a turn— he said he didn't, but it was clear Steve had. If he did it, it'll come out on its own._ "And he's just a lot bigger than her."

"Templar training?" The Sister's tone has sharpened. "The assailant is a Templar trainee?"

"Yes. He's in Templar training."

"What is his name?" Despite the phrasing, it's not a question, but a command.

"It's— It's Stefan Carroll."

"And the victim? Because if she was beaten and is now avoiding him, then it seems certain sure that it was indeed rape."

"I... I don't know if she'd want me to say," he admits. "She's... It's kind of a big secret. But.. I guess it's confessional, right? So this won't go any further than the confession booth?"

"Of course," the Sister lies without remorse. "This is a very serious offense and the Maker will have His Justice."

"It's Carver Amell. He's really a she in disguise."

There's the sound of sharp movement in the other booth. "Beg pardon?"

"Carver Amell. He's like Mulan, he's a she in disguise."

"I see," she says in a cool voice. _Well, that's hardly proper at all! I shall have to speak with the Mother about this_. "And what of your own involvement? Did you assist Carroll in his assault?"

"No. But I stood by and let it happen. I thought she wanted it, like he said." He pauses, then adds, "I did try to break up the fight, but I wasn't able to. Carver started it."

"And _why_ did she attack two Templar trainees?"

"Steve said he was going to make a woman out of her and I guess she didn't like that."

There's a long, heavy silence from the other booth. "I cannot demand your own name, but for the sake of your soul, I would very much suggest you give it so that you may be turned back from the path of sin, stupidity and _evil_ that you are treading towards," the Sister finally says in a chillingly disguised voice.

Cullen swallows. "I get the feeling I shouldn't hang out with Steve anymore," he says quietly. "I suspect he's not a good person to model my behavior after. How much penance must I do, Sister?"

"What do you think would make up for the suffering you visited on an innocent, if terribly misguided, young woman?"

"If I knew, I'd already do it," he says quietly. "I figured first I have to make sure she's okay, that she gets help if she needs it."

"Do you truly need to find out? Or doubt that she needs help for what you know was done to her?"

"No," he says, his tone miserable. "I guess I told because I don't want Steve to hurt anyone else. He's a rapist and I think he knew and he didn't care. And I don't want to be like him. I just want to keep people safe."

"Then why did you not keep Carver safe?" the Sister asks quietly, wanting him to say it.

"Because I'm a coward. I wanted to believe Steve, so I closed my eyes to her suffering."

"You let your desire for friendship, for the respect and acceptance of your peers, outweigh your duty to the Maker's edicts," the Sister says gravely. "That is the same path that the Magisters walked. The very start of it, yes, but nevertheless."

"Maker forgive me," he says, in a hushed tone. "What must I do to atone?"

"The first you must do is confirm your devotion to the Maker and His Church above all else. Cast aside your false friends. All of them, not just the worst."

"I understand, Sister. I will begin anew."

"Then must you also learn of the pain you caused. I will leave some forms for you to take at the back of the chapel. Training courses for volunteering to assist assault victims."

"Yes, Sister."

"You should also write a letter of apology. No, _letters_. One to the Maker. One to His Bride. One to Carver. And one to yourself, for shaming the man you should have been."

Cullen flinches. "Yes, Sister," he repeats.

"When you are done these letters, being them to the chapel and leave them in the offering plate. The Mother and I will decide if they are sufficient. Take the time you and your conscience require and permit to write them."

"Understood," he says. "And thank you. Knowing that there is a path forward, that the Maker forgives— it eases my heart some."

"It will be a long and arduous path," she warns him. "One that will take the rest of your life to truly complete, for it was not a single incident that has set your feet towards the Black City but a weakness inside you. You must never again allow mortal connections to sway you from Andraste's grace. It is only her love and her sacrifice that grants you this second chance. Do not betray her again."

"I won't, Sister."

* * *

The first couple nights after the incident, Carver had snuck back into his room shortly after curfew, had his shower, and gone to bed right away. The benefits of this were twofold: firstly, that he could avoid speaking to Alastair, who he knew was close with Cullen, who was close with Them; secondly, that the showers were just about deserted that late at night, meaning nobody would notice the blood dripping from his new straight razor down the drain.

Today, however, stopping by his room to get his things, there was a knock on the door. Alastair, who had been previously politely ignoring Carver, got the door; a moment later, Carver hears him tell Samson that he thought Carver was at the cafeteria, try there?

"Thanks," Carver grunts, after they're gone.

"Don't mention it."

And Carver doesn't. Instead he throws a few changes of clothes into a duffle bag, slings that and his backpack over his shoulder, and heads out to summon an Uber to go back to Bull's place.

When he doesn't make any move to go home by 8, Krem nudges the boss and goes to move his things back to the master bedroom. _Small chance he won't stay the night if he makes sad enough eyes_ , he thinks, not wanting to admit to himself how worried is he about the kid.

Bull studies the young man for a few more minutes, just watching him fiddle with his phone doing Qun knows what. _Teenagers. Damn things are useful as fuck, sure, but you'd think they were blood magic with how captivated most of them are by the things._ They are not, in fact, filled with blood magic. At least, not according to the twelve different mages Bull had checked with, a mix of Circle, Saarebas, apostates and even a Tevinter mage. Just to be sure. _Alright, enough dithering_. With a grunt, Bull pushes off the wall to take a seat across from Carver. "Alright. Make your case, sibi."

"Case?" He asks, his voice dull. _Looks like I could buy camping gear and go to the park if I am not worried about the raids, but any shelter will ask who I am._

Bull stares at him, eyes narrowing. "Chaos, sibi, when was the last time you got a full night's sleep? Or ate more than one meal's worth of food in a day?"

"I slept," he protests weakly. _A few hours. And then half of Algebra._

"You mistreat your body and it'll fail you when you need it," Bull says with a frown, rising back to his feet. "Up with you."

_It already did_ , he bites back. He gets to his feet, checking his phone. "Shit, on that note, I should go." _Out of time. Camping it is._

Bull snorts, then leans out into hallway. "Making a grub run!" He pauses, then looks at Carver. "What's your favorite? Tacos? Burgers? Shiren?"

_Fuck fuck fuck! He'll want to drive me back to the dorm!_ "I'm fine to get an Uber, eat in the mess hall."

Bull raises an eyebrow. "The mess so good you want to make a trip all the way there and back here just to eat?"

"...What? Back here?"

"Well, you're clearly not going back to your dorm," Bull says reasonably. "And I'd be a shit bodyguard if I let you go sleep in a park or something, wouldn't I." It's not a question.

From down the hall, Skinner shouts. "Well? Where the fuck you going already?"

Bull snorts, shaking his head with amusement. "Food choice?" he prods Carver.

Carver blushes a little. "Burgers are fine. Thanks."

"Burgers!" Bull shouts back down the hall. "Come on, they'll text me orders," he explains, then pauses, studying Carver. "You get driving lessons yet?"

Carver grimaces. "Yes. But..."

"Catch," Bull says cheerfully, tossing a set of keys at Carver. "Hate driving in the UP, streets and cars are both fucking backwards."

Carver blinks. "That's illegal," he says abruptly. _And fuck if I can drive right now._ "It's after six."

That gets a pause and a closer look. _Illegal? Since when do teens care about that? Well, if he doesn't want to, that's fine_. "Fair enough. Maybe you can drive in the morning, if you're up for it," he replies, holding out his hand.

Carver hands the keys back, nodding. "Sorry," he murmurs, hanging his head.

"I should practice too," Bull says with a shrug. "Can't always get away with fobbing it off on someone else, now can I?" He grins, then gestures for Carver to head out. "Need anything else while we're out? Grooming supplies or what have you?"

He shakes his head. _Shampoo. Razor. Shaving cream. Towel._ "Should be good."

"Cool." Fifteen minutes later, the attendant at the drive through is asking Bull to confirm his two hundred dollar order for the third time. "Yeah, I'll pull up and pay before you start," he says with amusement, glancing at Carver with a grin.

Carver doesn't look amused— he's back on his phone, scrolling through social media.

"World on fire over there?" Bull asks curiously as he pulls up to the first window.

"Checking Twitter. One of my friends ended up homeless. Uh, Twitter friends, not school friends."

Bull frowns as a little as he passes over his card. "Isn't that an insult in English?"

"No, that's twat. Twitter is an app "

_I thought it was 'twit?'_ "Aren't apps the food you get before most of your food?"

"Yes, but also on my phone. Apps."

Bull squints at Carver. "This is more of that homonym bullshit, isn't it?" he demands with weary scorn. "Maleun al'iinjlizia," he grumbles, shaking his head at the bizarre complexity of the English language.

"...Sure?"

"Words that look or sound the same but mean different shit. Like, uh, where do you wear hats?"

"Your head?"

"What? No, the words. Where is something. You wear hats. Where and wear."

"Oh." He shrugs. "Cool."

"Horrible," Bull corrects him when they reach the second window. "You poor bas have enough trouble figuring your shit out without your own damn language fucking with you."

The attendant at the window finally looks at Bull with wide, shocked eyes, who smiles politely back. "Pull off to the side? The horns are real. No need for ketchup packets or napkins," he preempts him. "Slot one, Good talk. Make sure the flurries aren't melted by the time everything else is done. Thanks buddy." Without waiting for a reply, he pulls over. "Anyway. Apps?"

"Stuff on my phone. Apps. You know. Like Snapchat or Twitter."

"So... like the program that lets me control the music players in the house? Why apps?"

"Dunno. That's just what they're called."

"Fair enough," Bull says with a shrug. He glances at Carver, keeping his expression even. "So what's the Twatter app do?"

"Twitter," he says, a little disgustedly. "It's for meeting people. Talking. You wouldn't get it."

"Oh like a chatroom? Or is it more like a message board?"

"What? No, it's like Tumblr. But shorter."

"Ah, of course. Tumblers are pretty small," Bull says with a safe nod. "Not my pick of, ah, apps but sounds good, I guess."

"Not tumblers. Tumblr."

Bull shakes his head sadly. "Maleun al'iinjlizia," he repeats. "So what's Tumbler not do that Twatter does? Sorry, Twitter."

Carver shrugs a shoulder. "Dunno really. Layout's different. Everyone on Twitter complains about Tumblristas and everyone on Tumblr says Twitter's full of nazis."

"Yeah, totally going to stick with my apps," Bull says sagely. "Signal, Slack and Tinder are way more my speed."

"Wait what, you're on Signal?" demands Carver. "I— I mean — not that I am or anything. I use Vigil instead." Now that's one he actually hasn't heard of— not unless he snooped through Marian's phone.

"It's okay for open communication," Bull says with a shrug. "I mean, I use RunShadows for work details of course. But Signal works for friends. Slack is great for bullshitting. And Tinder is great for hookups."

Carver glances away, not wanting to think about hookups now. "Sure."

_Hard mode it is then_. "After all, not often I get a hot elf dropping himself in my lap like Mal did."

Carver coughs, sputtering. "Wh-what??!?"

_There we go. That got something at least._ "After all, not often I get a hot elf dropping himself in my lap like Mal did," Bull repeats obligingly. "So Tinder is handy."

"The fuck?! Is that why they're getting a divorce?!" Carver has been doing his best not to think about the d-word, but there it is, right on the tip of his tongue after all.

"Nah, other way around. Both ways," Bull replies, giving Carver a curious. "They've been having problems for years evidently and your Dad hadn't gotten laid in like five years, poor guy. Your mom was stepping out already so fair is fair." _It occurs to me that Carver doesn't seem to have had a clue about any of this. Shit. Well. Better finished than hinted, I wager._

"Wh-what??! With who?! What the hell??!" Carver shakes his head. "I didn't need to know any of that!"

"He's your dad, you should know about his life," Bulls says with a frown. "Been a bit of a dud evidently but he seems to be working on it. Sure as fuck went to bat for you with the grandparents," he adds with some admiration. "Just needs to be more comfortable with _feelings_." He adds a playful tone to the word, smirking at Carver.

Carver looks away. "He always goes to bat for me. He's the best dad. But... I wish sometimes he didn't have to. Mother didn't appreciate it."

_Hmmm. Maybe botching with Seeker pushed him to do better with the twins? Younger twins, I mean. Weird how the older two just don't give that vibe._ "Children of the Qun don't have parents, we're raises in groups by professional caretakers. Growing up, it was easy to tell which ones looked at it as just their job, which ones took it as an honored duty, which ones were parents in their hearts... and which ones enjoyed the perks or control. Having dependents. Your dad? He sees it as an honor and he has the heart both."

Carver nods. "Did he... Tell you about me?"

"Yeah? He talked about all four of you," the older man replies. "Beth the least but just as fondly. The other three of you just more on his mind for various reasons I wager." He glances sideways at Carver. "Hints and clues, from him, Bahith— Marian— and observations of my own." _Trouble with the asshole grandparents similar to Seeker's trouble, her being so on point with Krem, that talk with Uncle Dude after the attack..._ "Got a theory or two, none that bother me."

"I don't have a dick," he says bluntly. "I am a man though."

"That can happen," Bull agrees without batting an eye, then glances at him. "Thanks for the trust."

"Sure," he says bitterly. "My ex friends found out, they might use it against me. Figure my bodyguard should know."

"None of the Chargers will give you any shit for it," he says bluntly. "If any of them once had any prejudice on the topic, Krem's ground it out ages ago. He's my second for good reason."

Now Carver glances back, meets Bull's eyes. "Krem? Really? But he's so... Really?"

"Having a birth defect doesn't diminish a person's worth," the Qunari says firmly. "Everyone has their hardships, that al-Khaliq's will. To those tested the hardest is given the greatest reward in Almadinat Aldhahabia." He pauses. "Sorry, that's the Maker and Golden City in your terms."

"I better get a castle," Carver mutters. "A whole castle just for me. And a griffin."

"Can't help with castles but you might be able to convince Daisy to help train a dinosaur for you in a few years," Bull says with a grin. "Talons, feathers, badass and legendary."

"I have been thinking of joining the Wardens of Kirkwall," admits Carver. "Having my own almost-griffin would help that I bet."

"Yeah?" _Hmm. Need to go slow. Start with lots of discipline stuff but... could really be good for him._ "You know, if you're going to be bunking with us you'll have to follow the house rules. Chip in with chores, participate in daily conditioning and training, be able to curse in at least four languages and so forth. Oh. You have any firearm training? Got guns all over the house, need to at least get you basic safety training."

"No," he says bitterly. "Dad wouldn't let me sign up for Templar training. But... With permission I can live off campus. That would be nice."

"Can you blame him? Mages need oversight, sure, but for every blood mage or abomination I've seen I've met a score of corrupt, sadistic or downright evil Templar. Nah, you're too good for the Templar. I'll call Mal, let him know you're moving in." He grins. "Been awhile since I got to train someone. Oh. Given things, figure I should warn you now. Skinner is a prickly bitch but don't take it personally. She'll tolerate kids, even shem, but otherwise she tops out at 'scathing respect." _Well, aside from Seeker. Poor Skinner has no idea how to handle Tanna._

"Alright," Carver says. He hesitates, then asks, "if I get out cash, will you buy me something online? I don't want Dad knowing."

"Probably. What?"

"I, uh... I lost my packer." He blushes. "Been making due with socks."

"Ah. Yeah, sure. You know what you want? Krem might be able to offer advice or... name a good vendor."

"I just want the same one, but it's like three hundred. Been getting out little bits at a time to save up."

"Three hundred? Damn, that's not cheap." He rummages in his pocket for a moment. Unlocking his cell— Amell tech these days— he hands it to Carver. "Here, pull it up. You can pay me back after but let's get it shipped."

Carver nods, pulling up the site, complete with cheesy pun name and hefty price tags. "It's the smaller one but that's okay with me. Until I turn 18 and can get surgery anyway."

"Yeah? Good for you." Bull takes the phone back and punches in his payment info, paying a hefty fee for the fastest delivery rate. "You need any of the accessories? Cleaning stuff or whatever?"

"Nah, I got all that. Oh, a harness, she took that too. Maybe two."

"What? Someone _stole_ your prosthetic? The fuck? Who does that?"

Carver reddens. "A— a stripper. She uh. Threw me out. Said no girls."

"Well, she's a bitch," he says stoutly. "Got a name? Seems like she owes you three hundred bucks and Skinner could use something to amuse herself with."

"It— It's fine. Really."

"Bullshit. Al-Khaliq will settle things after death but that doesn't mean she shouldn't get some karma now. She stole from you, gave great offense to your honor."

"I said it's fine," he snaps.

The Iron Bull turns to study Carver. "Your honor," he finally says. "Let me know if you change your mind."

"It happened in front of my— of Samson and Steve and Cullen and Alistair. That's why I don't want to go back to the dorm."

"Got photos? Always good to have a face for threats." He hesitates. "Which were the two, ah, I saw at the hotel?"

"Cullen and Steve. Samson went off somewhere."

Bull grunts softly, nodding. "Got a problem," he says abruptly. "After what they did, my first thought is to give you a crash course for some dirty fighting. Real nasty, brutally effective stuff that's all about survival with no showmanship or manners. But." He frowns, sighing. "But you're coming apart and lashing out. See my quandary?"

Carver nods. "I— I talked to someone. A kid at school who's been... What they wanted to do to me."

_Something a bit off there. He's being real vague about what they did to him_. "Do you...." Bull licks his lips, carefully seeking the right words. "I'm glad you're talking to someone. Be honored to talk with you too, if you want. Krem or Stitches would be too. If and when. And— you need to swing by a drugstore or anything? For, you know, candy or, uh, whatever?"

Carver looks away. "No. I have my T and everything," he says, pretending to misunderstand.

_Shit. That's not a good answer._ "Alright, good. So what's your schedule like? No sense in making you Uber over every day when we have two cars."

"Classes eight to three. I'll get you my practice schedule."

With that, they're nearly back; they cart the food inside, dish it out, and Carver wolfs down a burger, though he picks at the fries. Afterward, he goes to have a shower, figuring it's about time he got to bed; Krem offers Carver his room, and the lad puts his things down in it, slips into the shower.

And doesn't come out, not for a while.

What finally alarms Bull is the sound of a thud, something larger than shampoo falling in the shower.

Not having been able to sleep, instead pacing in the kitchen as he goes way overboard in making some hot chocolate— more to distract himself, to busy himself, than for want of the drink— Bull frowns. _Probably fine but..._ Moving down the hall, he knocks on the door. "Carver? Everything alright in there?"

"Yeah." He answers, but his voice sounds distant, weak. The shower's still running, but there's a strange, metallic scent in the air, faint enough that only Bull could smell it. A familiar tang. Something that, once smelled, he can never quite forget the stench of. And he's smelled a lot of it in his long life.

Bull's nostrils flare and he growls deep in his throat as the scent of blood, in _his home_ , reaches him. "Carver," he rumbles, body tense. "Get a towel." He gives the boy a five count, no more, before he pushes the door open.

At first he doesn't think Carver's in here— but then he sees the dark shape on the other side of the frosted glass of the shower. It must be Carver himself that fell, then, and he's not picked himself back up yet. As Bull wrenches the shower open, the sticky red liquid is doing its best to crowd out the water still falling from the showerhead as it gushes from Carver's left thigh. No wonder he's fallen— he looks dazed, a bit lightheaded.

"Slipped," he mutters. "Fine." The straight razor that must have done the deed rests beside him, not far from his hand.

"Tch," Bull says, frowning, as he leans down to peer at the wound. It's a thin, straight cut, but deeper than it should be; worse, it's next to several half-healed shallow cuts, none more than a few days old and all on the inner thighs. Carver tries to pull away as he gets in close, protesting with a weak whimper. "Fell," Bull says flatly, reaching over to grab a towel. He tosses over Carver's lap, then grabs a washcloth. "Press and hold that over the wound."

Carver nods, pressing it firmly. "Slipped," he argues. _My hand did anyway._ "'m fine. Just dizzy."

Bull leans in, his face right in Carver's. "Fuck off," he growls, eyes faintly red. "You think I'm dumb enough not to see what this is?"

"Cowardice," says Carver, falling silent after the single word.

"There are better plans, yes." Bull hooks an arm under Carver's knees and shoulder blades and hefts the boy up.

Carver's head lolls against Bull's chest, the washcloth already soaking through. Not a good sign, all told. Good thing there's a medic in the house.

"Stupid teenagers," Bull grumbles as he quickly rushes to Carver's new room, shouting 'medic' as he does so. Setting him down, he carefully arranges the towel to cover his bits as he waits for Stitches to arrive.

The man works quickly, stitching up Carver's leg and slathering on a healing-potion infused plaster to make the bleeding stop and take the edge off the blood loss. Carver's passed out by the time he's done, too pale, but breathing still; Stitches leaves them be, warning Bull that he'll wake before long, once his body's sure it's going to live.

And sure enough, he rouses, a good forty minutes later. His eyes flutter open, and he looks perplexed, but conscious.

Bull reaches over and pushes a mug into Carver's hands. "Drink," he orders. The smell of chocolate and spices hits Carver along with some wisps of steam. Carver sips, wincing as he burns his tongue a little. Bull glares at Carver until he takes a few more sips, then reaches over to the dresser next to him and grabs a plate. "Eat." On the plate are left over chicken nuggets, mercifully warmed, and two cubes of muddy red paste about an inch across.

Carver hunches his shoulders, mumbling "sorry" before he rapidly consumes a chicken nugget or two.

"Eat the, uh, blood paste first," the Qunari commands him.

Carver shudders. _With a name like that, how can I refuse?_ Still, he consumes the cubes, wincing as he does.

After a bite or two, Carver realizes they're mostly ground liver with some other stuff in them. "Good for replacing blood," Bull says shortly. He watches intently, waiting for Carver to finish every bite and drop. When he does, he passes the plate and cup back, hugging his knees to his chest. "Good. Now talk."

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and hot tears spring to his eyes.

"I'm glad. Be even more worried than I still am if you weren't feeling regret about almost killing yourself."

"I wasn't— I didn't mean to— it was an accident," he stammers.

Bull shrugs. "Dead's dead."

Carver shuts his mouth, looking down at his lap in silence. _Maybe it'd be better if I'd cut a little deeper_ , he thinks, and the thought terrifies him, turns his insides to ice. _Maker. I don't want to die. I just want them off my back. I want everyone to go away and pretend they don't know I'm— I'm trans._

"Ask for help," Bull whispers softly. "You have people willing to go to the Black City and back again for you. Fuck, Beth would spit in an Archdemon's eye for you. And yes, I still mean it even after her last visit here. You have some mending to do there, but if she's a tenth of the woman Bahith is, she'd never let that stop her from helping you."

"I don't want help," he whispers back. "I just want to be left alone."

"Why?"

"What are you to me?" he asks, instead of answering. "My what, new stepdad?"

"Huh?" Bull looks startled, confused, the first real emotion he's shown since Carver woke. "Oh! No, nothing like that. You're more than job and half family, yeah, but because of Bahith, not your dad. She, Daisy and Wilds are Chargers. You're Bahith's little brother."

"I don't have family," he says, looking back down. "I have a twin. And I can't— I can't talk to her about this. I'm not ready. So I don't want help."

"Wanna know something interesting?"

Carver glances up, making a small inquisitive noise.

"You're seventeen so I am legally permitted to ignore you when you're being angsty," Bull says cheerfully. "So tough. You got family anyway."

"Wh— no, I, I mean it."

"Sure, but again: teen, angst, family anyway."

"Guess I was precocious, I haven't had family since I was seven," he spits.

"Thought your dad was great, went to bat for you and such?"

"Sure, but..." He hesitates, glancing down at his hands. "I broke my family apart. So I don't get to have one anymore."

Bull frowns. "Explain that one to the new guy?"

"We haven't been a real family since I was little, because of me. Being how I am. So."

"Carver no. You're a boy. Almost a man now. If your grandparents and mother couldn't accept that, if that was something so bad it meant they couldn't love you, then you didn't break a damn thing. They betrayed you and your siblings."

"Maybe," he says dubiously. "But it's still because of me. Mother and Father used to have fights about it, all the time. And my grandparents... Mother used to make me wear dresses to visit them, and we always visited them for my birthday." Now that he's talking, the story pours out of him. "Beth threatened to go naked, but Father made her behave. I used to dig my nails into my palm when I couldn't stand it but the razor works better. Now I can't stand it, all the time, being in my own skin, hearing them call me 'girl', saying I was— and my cunt, my fucking cunt, it's just like a girl's, it acts like a girl's, I try to tell myself I have a cock but it's just a big clit, I'm not— I'll never be—"

Bull reaches over to snap his fingers rapidly next to Carver's ear. "Deep breaths, Jru. They're not here. You're safe. Alright? They're not here. Can you take some deep breaths for me?"

Now keenly aware he's panting, Carver takes a deep breath, shaking his head a bit. "Sorry," he whispers.

"Flashback. Pretty common for survivors of all sorts of traumatic events." Bull smiles sadly. "Guess you've got something in common with everyone else here in the house."

"You called me something. What was it?"

"Hmmm?" Bull rubs at his cheek. "Oh. Yeah. Jru. It means... young dog?" he explains with a shrug. "It fits you, at least to me."

"Pup," he suggests, taking another deep breath. "What's happening to me? It's getting worse."

"Trauma can do a lot of damage. You've had a rough upbringing, with people you should have been able to trust hurting you. Denying what you are. And being trans is confusing regardless. Then you get here and have to deal with this? Being outed and shamed by some bitch? Your friends turning on you, betraying you? Beating and raping you? Fuck. A lesser man would have broken already. You're cracking a bit but there's time yet."

He flinches. "They didn't..."

"It doesn't make you less," Bull says quietly. "Doesn't change your soul or your..." He falters a moment. "Destiny isn't right, neither is purpose but they're close. Doesn't matter. People can break bodies and minds but they can't touch your soul. They can enslave and violate but they can't take that light."

"That's a lie," he snaps. "You're just lucky."

"Can't say I'm not lucky," he allows. "Doesn't mean I'm wrong."

"Spend a few hours with people calling you a girl, see how you like it," he mutters.

Bull cocks his head to the side. "I have actually. Cow, technically, but those are the female of the species, right? Cow-man, savage cow, cow fucker— suppose that one could be taken as a charge of bestiality instead— and so forth. The gender part cuts deeper on you, because of your upbringing, but I can't deny that being called some kind of dull-minded, weak animal raised to be slaughtered and eaten doesn't get under my skin."

"They've known for weeks," he says, his voice dull, his eyes distant. "Always picking at me in private. Girl. She. Just a girl. Liar. Wouldn't want anyone to know. Then at homecoming: we do have a girl, right here. Make a woman out of her. Girls always play hard to get. I don't feel like I have a light inside me. I feel empty."

_Worse than I'd hoped. Monsters, the lot of them._ "They're wrong," Bull says bluntly. "You're not a woman. Woman can and mostly do say no and mean it. They betrayed you, over and over again. That's a hurt to you, but it's their sin. They're the ones that are wrong."

"They're going to tell eventually," he whispers. "Everyone's going to think of me as a girl."

"Well... that's basically blackmail," Bull reasons. "And there's four basic ways to deal with blackmail. Pay them off. Take them out. Weather the fallout. Or neutralize the dirt."

Carver blanches. "I can't let everyone find out. And I tried paying them off and I can't— I can't afford the payments anymore. I won't let you kill my friends— ex-friends. So I— I guess I just— I guess I just let them win."

"Take them out doesn't always mean kill," Bull points out. "Could take out their character. Tarnish their reputation and their word so that no-one believes them. Maybe combine that with moving your surgery forward; you seem completely determined to get it done, so why put it off?"

"Family," he says bitterly. "I'm underage, they can block it."

"Talk to your dad," Bull says firmly. "He'll sign on off it and the others won't try and stop it. And if they try, we get crafty."

"My grandparents would stop it. They have more money and power than dad. So I have to wait a year."

"Talk to your dad," Bull repeats. "Money isn't the only kind of power."

"I'd have to admit why," he admits.

"Not all of it, not yet anyway. I get needing time before that talk. But if you tell him that some ex-friends caught a peek or whatever and you want to prevent that from happening again." The merc shrugs. "Like I said, you're dead set on this and were gonna have it done in less than a year anyway."

"I'd have to miss school," he says slowly, but that doesn't sound like a downside, not anymore. "I don't know how long. And then the recovery time is a bitch and a half. But if I can pay extra for some magic healing, speed things up a bit..."

"Bed rest would provide plenty of time for you to get some therapy too," Bull suggests in that way that means it's not optional, his head angling towards Carver's leg.

Carver winces. "You won't... tell anyone about this?"

Bull considers Carver for a long moment. "You've had your choice taken from you a lot. So no, I won't. Don't make me regret that, alright? No more cutting. Work your shit out."

"I didn't mean to go so deep," he protests. "I'll be more careful. I need _something_."

"Then we'll find something else. Self-harm isn't acceptable. You need to let emotions out, find a release. Exercise. Art. Fucking. Dancing. Something that makes or grows you, not diminishes what you are."

"I can't fuck," he growls. "I don't have a dick. And I'm not doing girly shit like dancing or art."

"Girly?" Bull stares a moment, then nods. "Right, westerners are weird about that stuff. Damn shame really, be nice to find someone to teach knitting to." He leans in to add in a whisper. "Krem tried, he really did, but damn. Man can dance a knife across his fingers, lift a wallet like a whisper and stitch a wound but he knits like he's wearing winter gloves."

"...that's bad?" hazards Carver.

"Yeah, just a bit. You play soccer, yeah? Imagine someone trying to play in snowshoes. That's Krem knitting." He laughs a little. "But if that's not your thing, we can figure something out. How about sculpting? Chiseling rock or using a welder on metal. That's badass, right?"

"Sure, but how?"

Bull frowns. "Whadda mean, how?"

"Don't you need like... Special equipment?"

"Oh. Sure, we'll see what we can get local. Home improvement and craft stores. Amazon the rest." Bull grins. "Trust me, there are way worse hobbies you could pick up. Your dad'll be thrilled."

"And it... Works?"

"With a lot of people, sure. Making something with your own hands, your own mind, can be soothing. Focuses the mind on something else, lets emotions and thoughts cool so you can deal with them easier. And it can be fun. Therapy, art, training, surgery. We got plans. There's a way forward."

"I- I guess," he says hesitantly.

"Something on your mind?"

"It just... doesn't seem real. There being a way out. I'm sure it'll... I'm sure it'll get better."

Bull nods, expression sober. "It will and won't. Comes in waves for most people." He studies Carver for a moment. "Alright. I'll step out to let you get dressed for bed. Need anything?"

"No. And... thank you. For— I don't know how you knew I needed help, but thank you for giving it."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver isn't doing so hot in the aftermath of Homecoming, though a painful exchange of truths with Zevran helped him take a few steps on the path to healing. Meanwhile, Cullen moves down his dual paths of stupidity and redemption with mixed success. Stumbling, falling, being picked up, Carver continues to exist, continues to go through the motions of life almost despite himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: talk about self-harm, brief homophobia, references to past trauma

Thursday, at lunch, Beth spies something disturbing: Andrea eating lunch with Samson and Steve, rather than the drama geeks. Beth barely focuses on her lunch, letting Cindy and Shannon's chatter roll over her like sea spray.

She sees her chance when Andrea gets up to hit the restroom. Swerving by the drama room, she grabs Teddy, and the pair of them dissuade a Freshman from entering so they can have the place to themselves.

Seeing one stall door closed, Teddy taps Beth on the shoulder, and signs, "interpret?"

Beth shakes her head. 'Start annoying more difficult.' Instead, she heads over to wash her hands to burn time. After a minute or so, Andrea emerges from the stall. She gets halfway to the sinks before stopping her two friends. "Uh, hey?"

Teddy gives a shy smile, then signs, "worried about you."

Andrea stares a moment. "What? Why?"

Glancing at Teddy, Beth frowns. "Because of Samson? Have you really not heard what's been going around about him and his posse?

Teddy adds, "s-t-e-v-e gave m-a-r-i a hard time at the dance." 

"I— I've heard some stuff but I didn't believe— what happened?" Andrea asks, frowning. _Samson was a little pushy, but he was nice enough when I called a stop._ She smiles, just a little, at the memory of his lips on hers, his hands on her butt and back. _He was clearly disappointed when I wouldn't let him go under my dress but he backed off after a few no's. Maybe next time I'll wait a bit longer._

"Steve and the others rented a hotel room for an 'after party' for them and their dates." Beth sneers the word. "Bells turned Steve down and he lost it, insulted her, really savage. Called her some really nasty shit. He, Samson, Cullen and Carver all left the party, Alistair stayed with Teddy and me to comfort Bells." She starts to pace a little, almost more swaying in place. "Evidently they blamed Carver or whatever, something about Teddy and me warning Bells that Steve is known for being a cad and such, so they beat the shit out of him. Threatened worse. Not just roughed him up either: broken bones, magical healing."

Andrea gapes at Beth. "What? Is he okay? I—" Her eyes widen. "I haven't seen him around lately, is he—"

"He's fine," Teddy signs. "healed. But afraid."

"Last I saw he was off campus," Beth says in a hurt voice. "With our security team."

_They have a— oh. Of course. After what happened with their brother..._ "Oh. That's good, I guess?"

"Did anything happen? At the dance?" signs Teddy, with a slight worried frown.

Andrea blushes deeply. "N-n-no?" she stammers, not looking at all distressed. She looks around quickly, double checking there's no-one else in the room. "I had a lovely time, if a bit shorter than I would have liked. But I could hardly blame Samson for having to—" Her eyes widen as a foggy memory of the end of her evening surfaces. "Oh! He told me had to help a friend who'd gotten dumped from doing anything stupid. He must have tried to stop Steve from hurting Carver."

"Okay," they sign. "Good. Stay away from s-t-e-v-e." After a moment, they correct themselves and sign the signal for asshole, tapping their head to turn it into "asshat". "Stay away from asshat. And if anything happens with r-a-l, please talk to us?"

_Went to stop Steve? I— huh. I guess I just assumed who was involved but Carver didn't deny it. And I can't picture Samson picking Carver over Steve. Plus I've seen the two of them together since... though... not as much. Hrmm._ "Maybe so. Steve is definitely dangerous. Please, please, please don't be alone with him. Or even with just him and his friends."

"I promise. But Samson— he hates Raleigh by the way, only his parents call him that," she adds in the tone of someone pleased to have an 'insider fact' to share, "is fine. A little... coarse maybe, but that's not really all that bad." She flushes again, remembering lips and hands.

Teddy nods. "Are we cool?" they sign, after a brief pause to think.

Andrea looks at Teddy, startled. "What? Why wouldn't we be?"

Teddy shifts, then, looking a little awkward as they sign, "the dance. Dates."

_The dance? What about it?_ "I had a good time? Did you not? I know we didn't see each other much but..."

"You had fun? With... a boy?" Teddy signs, slowly.

"Well..." Andrea shrugs a little. "I mean, most of the Templar stuff he said was stuff I already knew or don't care about or whatever. But he was funny and kissing was—" She stops abruptly, looking mortified. "I m-m-mean—"

Beth winces at Andrea's response, reaching over to rest a hand on Teddy's back. _Tiny elven gods, does she not realize what's up?_

"You didn't wish you were with... someone else?" Teddy signs, chickening out at the last moment.

Andrea frowns a little. "Not really? I mean, if Tony Pentaghast was available, sure," she says with a blush. "But Samson is perfectly fine for, you know, umm, some self discovery before I take vows. I mean, honestly? He's out of my league; I still can't believe he asked me to Homecoming in the first place."

"Did you ever want to discover... girls?" signs Teddy, hands shaking a little.

Beth bites her lip, heart aching with compassion for Teddy; and gut twisting with guilt at her own evasions and lies on the topic. Both only increase at the look of shock on Andrea's face. "What? Maker no! Teddy, that's a _sin_. The Maker made it very clear that love and marriage are for a man and a woman. _Only_ a man and a woman."

_Oh._ Teddy nods, signing quickly, "just checking".

Unfortunately, she'd signed too much already. "Teddy," Andrea says slowly, studying her friend. "Do you have— are you— Maybe you should talk to a Sister?"

"There's nothing wrong with Teddy," Beth snaps.

Teddy shakes their head, agreeing. "I went with A-l-i-s-t-a-i-r. We had fun."

Andrea studies Teddy for a long moment, unsatisfied by Teddy's assurance. "If you say so." She offers a smile then. "You're a good person, Teddy. I just wouldn't want you to damn yourself because of— of some kind of whim or whatever."

Teddy shakes their head again. "Thank you," they sign.

"So! Glad everyone's okay. Andrea, please be safe and remember what we said about Steve and such," Beth says briskly. "Teddy, mind giving me a hand with my hair before we go back out?"

"Sure," Andrea promises Beth. "I should get back to my lunch before Samson eats it." She glances at Teddy again, shaking her head a little. "See you in bio."

Teddy nods, waving merrily, managing to keep the tears back until Andrea leaves. Then they lean against the door, wiping at their eyes for a moment. _Andrea..._

Beth just as quickly pulls Teddy into a hug. "Al-Khalick," Beth mutters, mostly getting the name right. "Teddy, I'm so, so sorry."

_It's fine,_ Teddy thinks as loudly as they can toward Beth. _I'm fine. It just sucks._

Beth rubs Teddy's back slowly, mind whirling with conflicting impulses and feelings. "She's wrong," the young woman finally manages. "She's _wrong_. There's nothing wrong with being gay. You're a wonderful, incredible person. She's missing out on a treasure."

Teddy nods against Beth's shoulder, not in a mood to argue. _I know. But it still hurts._

Beth continues to hold Teddy for a little while longer. "Teddy?" she says softly, waiting until the other woman looks up. "I... I sorta lied. Before." Beth bites her lip, torn, then finally just goes for it. Leaning in, she lightly kisses her friend.

Teddy's eyes close; their lips stay lightly puckered, as if begging for more. _She smells so good..._

Beth keeps it light but lingers for a good half minute. When she pulls back, she licks her lips, breathing heavy. "Umm. Wow. I didn't mean to— great timing Beth," she stammers.

"Wow," Teddy breathes aloud, eyes opening.

"Oh. Wow? Umm. Wow... good? Or... wow... bad?"

"Good," she repeats. "Beth." She reaches up and strokes Beth's hair, gently.

_Oh hey, kissing makes their words surface. Neat._ "Good," Beth echoes, blushing. "So. Umm. Yeah. Lesbian. Me, I mean. No-one out of my family knows and not even most of them."

Teddy nods, pulling back enough to sign, "I won't tell."

"Thanks," Beth says quietly, eyes downcast. "I just... After what she said, I couldn't— I just wanted to— I should have admitted it when you did. But I just..."

Teddy nods, reaching up to stroke Beth's hair again. _That was nice. Nicer than I have any right to expect. I still want Andrea, but Beth is gentle and sweet and kind... I could do worse._

Beth leans into the touch for a moment, then sighs. "We're still in the bathroom," she reminds them both. "But, umm, should we... chat about this tonight? It'd be nice to talk about it with someone else that understands. And isn't my sister."

Teddy nods against Beth's shoulder. _And I'll do my best to be able to really **talk**. I'm getting tired of sign._

Beth lets out a slow breath. "Bells volunteers from seven to nine; you could come over or we could just chat from our rooms," Beth offers slowly, trying not to fidget.

"I'll come to you," signs Teddy.

"Cool, cool," Beth says a little nervously. _What did I do? Maker, why did I kiss her? Why now? But it was really nice. She just got bigot-based pre-dumped! But—_ "So..."

Teddy smiles, brushing a few fingers along Beth's cheek, and nods, encouragingly. They give a thumbs-up, trying to set Beth more at ease.

Blushing a little at the touch, Beth smiles wanly back. "Sorry, I'm just... Sorry. Thoughts are scattered like woah. It's been a really taxing week. Month. Season."

Teddy plants a kiss on Beth's cheek. _It'll get better._

Beth blushes yet again. _Ugggh, hormones. This was a terrible idea. Why did I do this? No, it's fine. Is it? I can't think straight, I need to talk to—_ Beth flinches suddenly.

Teddy pulls back, frowning as they sign, "you okay?"

"Confused," Beth admits. "Wanted to talk to Carver about it but..." She swallows thickly, eyes a bit wet. "I think I'm going to call Garrett after classes."

Teddy nods, then tilts their head toward the door. "We should go. The bell—" The warning bell rings, then, signaling lunch period's end.

"Nice," Beth says, trying to lighten things. "You gonna be okay?"

Teddy nods, giving another thumbs-up. _I'm Teddy. Of course I'll be okay._

"Be well, okay?" Beth pulls her in for another hug, then nods sharply. "Okay. Class." She makes a face. "Ugh. _Classes_."

* * *

Garrett is just starting to wind down his work for the day, finally back at StoneSure after the series of bullshit adventures he'd undergone, when his cell starts ringing. Which is important, as his personal cell is set to silent while in the building, with only a handful of numbers passing through.

"Whoops, need to take this, sorry Neets," he says casually, stepping away from his desk into the hall before answering. "Beth? What's wrong?"

"Carver got beaten up really badly and threatened with worse and he's so angry and horrible and it's terrible and he's hurting so much and—and— and he— he almost h-hit me but he didn't and I know he wouldn't really but I _knew_ he would never even think it but he did everything else is all twisted up in my head and I kissed a girl and I need to talk to my twin but I can't now and I don't know what to do." As far as he can tell, she managed all that in one breath. Somehow.

"Beth, Beth, calm down! Take a deep breath for me, okay? Deep breath." Worried, he re-routes for Varric's office.

Garrett can hear Beth taking several long ragged breaths while behind him, Neets starts closing down his work and computer. "Sorry," Beth whispers after she finishes.

"It's okay. Where are you? Are you safe?" he asks, his voice as soothing as he can make it given the circumstances.

"Umm, yes? Oh, sorry, I— this wasn't today. Except the last part. Kiss. I'm in my dorm.*

Varric's door unlocks itself before he can knock and when Garrett enters, he sees the Shirén giving him a worried, focused look.

"Okay, that's good. Where is Carver now?" Garrett gives Varric a nod, but keeps his attention on Beth.

Varric's eyes widen as Beth stammers a guess of 'class or his dorm' in a tone that makes it clear she's not sure. "He's been bunking with the Chargers off-campus for the last two nights," Varric says softly.

"Is he still staying with the Chargers?" asks Garrett, mouthing, 'thank you'.

"What? He— he was there right after Homecoming but I thought—" Beth takes a deep breath. "That would make sense, I guess. I haven't... I haven't seen him around much." She swallows thickly, tears in her voice. "I— we haven't— talked. At all." For four days? Garrett would be willing to wager that's the longest they've not spoken with each other in any form since, well, possibly ever.

"Because he hit you?" he asks, gently. "Are you alright?"

"He didn't!" Beth nearly shouts, the chokes back a sob. "He didn't," she repeats in a broken whisper.

"Okay, okay," he says gently. "Beth, please take another deep breath and tell me what happened. Why did Carver almost hit you?"

"He what?" demands Varric.

Beth sniffles. "I don't know. I mean... Steve and— and maybe Samson, I'm not sure. But they hurt him. Bad. Bull said he needed magical healing even after a healing potion. And I think they threatened to maim him, because Steve blames Carver for getting him kicked off the soccer team for drug use. And— and he blamed me. He was so hurt and— you know Carver, he can't let himself be weak or hurt. He just can't. He either shuts down and dies inside or he lashes out."

"Do you need me to pay him a visit?" Garrett asks, with a quick glance to Varric.

" _No_ , it's okay, leave him alone," Beth snaps protectively. "Well. I mean, he could probably use a call or something. Maybe he'll talk to a _brother_." The hurt in that word is a hard contrast to the protective tone before.

"...do _you_ need me to come out there?"

Beth hesitates a long time, long enough for Varric's glare to start burning a hole through Garrett's head, before she sighs. "No. It's not safe for you in the UP. Hearing your voice helps. I just... I know he lashes out, that when he's really bad, he says whatever seems most effective to win and hurt. He doesn't mean it. But..."

"Princess, don't worry about me. Varric can keep me safe. If you need me, we'll be there. Alright? I don't want you worrying about me so hard you get yourself hurt."

"Gāisǐ shagua!"

"Garrett, no. I'd just worry more about you if you came here. I need you safe. Just talk to me?"

"Of course, I'm here, Beth. I'm just worried about both of you. You've been through a lot together, and he's never tried to hit you before, has he?"

"No," Beth says quietly. "He stopped being willing to even rough house once he started bulking out, because he left a bruise once. He spent the next week acting like a house elf he was so eaten up about it."

_Like a what?_ Garrett wonders. "So what's changed? You said he got beat up, but I don't know who those boys are you named."

"Trogs," Beth sneers. "Chauvinistic, rich white boys with massive egos dripping with slime. Also popular, rich and connected. Carver started trying to befriend them the second half of last year. Alistair is fine, Cullen... I _thought_ he was fine but maybe not. Samson and Steve are garbage fires."

"So you don't like his new friends, which is understandable, and they beat him up? You said they threatened to do worse?"

"Yeah. I'm not sure what— Something happened soon after we got back; he had some kind of boy's only off-campus outing for his birthday, I think a stripper maybe? But they got busted; Samson got major demerits— he, Cullen and Alistair are all Templar recruits, which, wtf Carver— Steve got kicked of the varsity soccer team— I think he had a scholarship lined up for college that went with it— and everyone got major detentions."

Varric hesitates, then waves Garrett over to his desk, where he's written something down. As Beth continues to explain, Garrett looks at what Varric had written down. 'Bull rescued from hotel. Bad beating, tied up, threats. C's reactions imply transphobic sexual assault.'

"Maker," breathes Garrett, though it's hard to tell at which half. "Please let him know if he wants to talk, he can call me any time. But for now I think we have to focus on you. How can I help? You said something about a kiss?"

Voice tiny, Beth asks, "so you think I should talk to him?"

"If you want to. Do you want to?"

"I want my twin back," she whispers.

"Then I think you have to talk to him. Stay safe. If he gets angry, make sure you have an exit. But give him a chance. Maybe he feels terrible about it."

Beth whimpers a little, heart aching at the idea she needs to be _safe_ around her twin. "Okay."

"I'm sure it'll be alright, Bethie. Sometimes men get angry like that, they do things they regret. Carver doesn't have a lot of practice managing his anger. I'm sure he feels terrible."

"He better," Beth says bitterly, still sniffling. "But he does. I mean, with his temper. 'cause he has to all the time at home."

"He doesn't get angry at home," argues Garrett. "He's so quiet and polite."

"Exactly."

"The hell?"

"Guilt and fear, Garrett," Beth says quietly. "He won't ever let himself be angry at home. Or anything that might cause problems."

Garrett sighs. "Still? I thought, after the grandparents relented..."

"He blames himself for everything," Beth blurts out. "I've tried to tell him but he— he's stubborn. Like the rest of you."

"Everything? How much is everything?"

_At the worst? Black City and after_. "Since I convinced him to tell mom he wanted a new name," Beth sighs.

"But I mean — everything like Mother and the grandparents? Everything like my bike accident?"

"He called it 'the black pebble that made tidal waves enough to sink our family' once, when he was deep in his beatnik phase." _Thanks be that didn't last long. Carver should never poet. Ever._

Garrett rakes his hand through his hair, sighing. "One sec," he says, and puts her on mute. "Varric? Do me a solid and ask Bull if Carver's still in his sight?" Then he unmutes, saying, "sorry, someone walked by. You know none of this is his fault, right?"

Varric nods, eyes unfocusing as he reaches out.

"Duh. At most, he was— ugh, I can't be creative right now.. He might have revealed stuff but our grandparents are garbage and our parents aren't all that good either."

"Agreed," says Garrett. "Especially Mother. But it's worrying. Does he ever... Does he ever talk about hurting himself? Even as a joke?"

Beth is silent for too long before she replies, "why do you ask?"

He sighs, worry eating at him. "I hurt myself a few times, over less guilt than that. Nothing too serious— Varric knocked some sense into me— but..."

Beth is quiet once again. "Well, you know me; I'm great at knocking sense into Carver. Do it all the time."

"Has he ever been that dumb?" asks Garrett quietly.

"Garrett, it's fine. I got his knocks handled. Please."

"You're not with him right now," he says quietly, glancing to Varric for that information. "And he's done something to you, something he might regret."

"He's with Bull," Varric says, nodding. "Bull said that he's 'taken the jru under his wing.' Pup, evidently."

"Carver wouldn't do that," Beth says firmly. "He knows what that would— he wouldn't do that."

Garrett sighs with relief. "Oh good. He's with The Iron Bull now, perfectly safe."

"He took care of Marian pretty well, even with... whatever it was that went on up there. Down there I mean. Whatever." Beth takes a slow breath. "Okay. Okay. He's probably fine for now then."

"He's fine, for sure he's fine." Garrett nods. "Varric just checked for us. So. Don't worry about me, and don't worry about him. Look after yourself."

"You better be fine," Beth says with exasperation, "after all the work Varric's put into straightening you out." She pauses, then snorts. "Well, 'straighten out' is maybe the wrong way to phrase that."

Garrett gives a throaty chuckle, but doesn't let it go. "How about you? Are you fine?"

"I'm, umm, agitated works? I guess?"

"Are you thinking of anything like that?"

"Like wh— oh! No, I'm not— I'm torn between hiding under the bed and sobbing for a few hours, eating my weight in ice cream, or having wild sex with the first woman that says yes." Beth squeaks softly. "That-last-was-supposed-to-be-in-my-head."

"Please don't have sex with someone just because you're upset. Ice cream sounds good, so does crying. Do you have friends that can come over?"

"Most of them are woman I want to sex," Beth mumbles. "I'm really horny right now, it's that time."

"Maker, I didn't want to know that," he grumbles.

"Aww, is Big Bad Playboy Garrett unsettled because his little sister wants to smash?" Beth coos, mood lifting at the chance to tease her brother.

"You're my _baby sister_. I don't want to think about your cycles _or_ your 'smashing'. Ew."

"I'm probably already older than you were the first time you got laid," Beth says, a challenge in her voice.

"Guys are different that way."

Beth makes a sound of disgust. "Bullshit," Beth flares up at him. "Males aren't a lick better than woman. If it's okay for you to fuck around, I can too. If it's alright for a guy to get laid at fourteen— no, to be _praised_ for getting laid at fourteen, then you're damn right I'm losing my virginity the second I decide someone is worth my time."

"I was never in danger of coming home pregnant like you and Carver are," he snaps. "It's not a double standard, it's biology. You have to take more precautions. I don't care if you fool around with women, but be _sensible_ , Beth."

"I'm on birth control, dummy," Beth points out in a huff. "And you knocking some girl up isn't any better than me being knocked up."

"Birth control's not a hundred percent, and yes it is. Money can fix a lot of mistakes a man makes. I'd feel real bad if I knocked some girl up and she got complications and died, but it'd be nothing next to you dying."

"Wow. That's disgusting," Beth says scornfully. "Did you ever do that? Do I have any nieces or nephews running around whose mother you paid off?"

"I'm talking about paying for an abortion, Beth, but for your information, no."

"How is that different than me just paying for my own abortion?" Beth challenges him.

"Because, again, you can have long-term fertility problems or die. Pregnancy is dangerous and so is abortion."

"Ah, so it's okay for guys to be sluts because they won't be the ones in danger. Some rando female? Pssh, who cares, right?"

_How did they get to this topic? And..._ "She's winning, fyi," Varric remarks idly.

"It sounds callous, but yes, of course I care more about you than some random stranger," he snaps. "Why does that make me a bad person?"

Bethany hesitates a moment. "Fine, I guess _that_ part is understandable," Beth says begrudgingly. "But I won't be some second-class citizen just to have a few extra crumbs of safety." Even as the words leave her mouth, the bitter taste of hypocrisy floods her. _Won't I? Haven't I done just that my whole life?_

"Look, just fuck women. Go hog wild. Well I mean, use a dental dam or whatever, don't get herps, but even herps can be dealt with easier than pregnancy. I mostly fucked men anyway, same reason."

"Uh, well if it would make you feel better, I _suppose_ I could focus on ladies," Beth says with the most gracious of graciousness. "Only ever met one guy that was at all interesting anyway." She falls silent, then sighs softly. "Sorry I'm on edge. I really do think all that but... Carver said they were right. About it being my and Teddy's fault he got beat up, because we warned Bells about Steve and gave her Avoiding Date Rape 101."

"Shit. It's not your fault, Beth, I'll tell you that much. It's just... it's easier sometimes for a guy to blame anyone but his friends." _And I wonder if Carver was fucking them?_

"I know. Carver... he just wants so desperately to be accepted."

"I know how that feels," admits Garrett. "You get so focused on the one guy who likes you, or acts like he does... you start to think he's all that matters. Not your family, no other friends, just him. He's got some big plans, and you start to feel small, like you're honored just to play some little role in his scheme."

Varric clears his throat lightly. "Might be projecting just a bit there, shagua."

"Uh, that's worryingly specific?" his sister observes.

Garrett flushes. "my point is just, there's a lot of ways to get all tangled up about bad people so they make you forget good people."

"Uh-huh. So your advice is to find Carver a sexy, older Dom?"

"Maker, no. And that's not exactly how it happened anyway. We started doing this whole BDSM thing because I was grateful that he saved me. No, truthfully, he scared me straight, took me away from all my friends, and threatened my life a few times before I'd shape up. I hope Carver's not that bad already. But you should probably get him away from those boys."

"Awww, you mean it wasn't my roguish good looks and dry wit that seduced you back to the light?" Beth gasps, then makes a tea kettle noise at the sudden evidence that Varric is on the line. "Anyway, Bull's already gotten him clear. Still debating on making the distance guaranteed permanent."

"You can't kill kids, they're like roaches — after the first couple, they never leave you alone." Garrett shrugs, sounding utterly casual. "I'm sure Bull has him well in hand. Hopefully not the same way you had me in hand, though."

"Kill?" Beth demands, then frowns, staring at the far wall. "Actually..." _After what they did to Carver, I'm actually pretty okay with that._

"Beth," warns Garrett, sounding more serious. "Don't kill your classmates. Life isn't a video game."

"What? Garrett, don't be absurd. I'm a rich lady, I don't do my own killing." Beth lets out an artful 'air-headed, prissy noblewoman' laugh. "I'm batting my eyes, just so you know. Very fetching."

"Sarcastic Beth is new," Varric observes. "I like it."

"Always do your own killing. That way it's on your head." Garrett shrugs. "I always try to."

Beth pulls the phone back to stare at it for a moment. _Did he get his life philosophy from Game of Thrones?_ "Okay, so this is what being treated like an adult is like. Neat," she mutters too loudly, then puts the phone back against her ear. "I'll keep that in mind. Both bits of advice."

"Sorry," says Garrett. "I shouldn't probably be telling you half this, I just... I'm getting tired of secrets in the family."

"No, it's— it's fine. It is, really," Beth insists. "I want to know, even if it's hard. I want to be able to talk to you like I can with Car-"

"Well," he jokes. "The first thing you have to know is your big brother's a fuck-up and you shouldn't be like me."

"Hey!"

There's a pause, then Beth allows Varric to continue alone. "Rough start maybe, but you were always solid where it was needed. I love Mal, he's a great friend, but I know that you're as much Beth's dad as he ever was."

"Come on, you know better than anyone what I'm like when left to my own devices. And anyway, I was mostly kidding. I've got good points she can emulate."

"Wouldn't mind learning how to ride a motorcycle like you," Beth wheedles and not for the first time. Which was when she was twelve.

"Not like me you don't," he points out. "I had two serious crashes in the past few months."

"Well, no, I figure I'd do the whole 'learn from example' thing and not do that."

"Get Varric to teach you. He is way more cautious."

"Cautious... that's adult for boring, right?"

"Oye!"

Beth giggles lightly. "Maybe we could all go? I'm really curious to see the new you two when we're not in Amell Mode. Maybe even make it a double dat—"

"Sure," Garrett says quickly. "That sounds great."

Beth groans. "Date. Teddy. _Kiss._ "

"Right, right — how did that, ah, come about?"

Beth groans. "Okay. So. Teddy and Andrea are friends of mine from theatre. They're besties. Or... were? Maybe are? Anyway, Teddy has a major crush on Andrea and they've had some kissing practice with each other but years ago and only pecks on the lips, before Andrea got Chantry-fied. So when Homecoming came around and Andrea just kind of tossed off that she had a date with a guy, Teddy was pretty hurt. Long and short, Andrea had a pretty good time, somehow, Teddy was alright and afterwards they asked— Teddy uses they/them for now, it's a work in progress— they asked if Andrea maybe wished she'd gone with someone else, hint hint? Andrea was _appalled_ at the idea. Evidently there's only men and woman with nothing in between and they should only date across not aside. So yeah." Beth sucks in a deep breath. "Afterwards, Teddy was all sad and— I just— she's really cute and a good friend and we might have been flirting around Homecoming but it's unclear, especially as Bells was involved but yeah, I just kissed her."

"That's... not the best decision you ever made, but, did this Teddy respond?"

"Yeah," Beth sighs goofily.

"Well then, congratulations. Sounds like you have a new kissing practice partner."

Beth winces. "Maybe? She's coming over tonight, after dinner, so we can talk. I just... I'm not sure what I'm going to say. The kiss was great. It was pretty much exactly what I'd always hoped it would be." She groans, thumping her head against the wall of her dorm. "But what do I do about that? Just friends that maybe kiss? Friends with full benefits? A fling? Shameful secret lovers? Out myself?"

"You don't have to out yourself. And you don't have to put labels on anything— sometimes that just confuses the issue. Just do what you feel like doing, take sensible precautions, and let the relationship be what it is. You're too young for promises anyway."

_Let it be what it is._ "Huh. That's... that's good. That's... yeah." She snorts likely. "Did Varric feed you that one?" she teases.

"Actually, no. That was my very own life philosophy, Princess, I hope you like it. Varric loves labels."

"Variables need to be known to be—" Varric scowls, giving Garrett a look that informs the younger man he'll be paying for that later.

"Thanks, big brother," Beth says quietly. "Sorry to have dumped all this on you without any warning. But it really helped. So thanks."

"Any time," he says, his voice soft, warm. "I love you, Princess. Stay safe."

"That's the plan," Beth promises him. "Love you Garrett. Say hi to everyone for me, alright?"

"Sure thing."

* * *

Carver plays hooky from Math. He doesn't mean to, at first; he just needs to use the restroom between classes, and as he sits in the men's toilets he thinks about how they always seem to assign worksheets or group work and he's sat next to Alistair and he'll have to say something about hi, how was your homecoming, and it just gets to be too much. He ends up huddled in the restroom the whole hour, looking up twitter on his phone, knees pulled up to his chest in case someone comes in. Nobody does. People tend to just use the urinals and get out, without checking if someone might be hiding in a stall with the door almost closed but not entirely so it hides their body while seeming empty.

_Alistair has drill today_ , he realizes, and that cheers him enough to get him out of the cold, smelly bathroom and headed for the dorm. _I can get the last of my things and be out of his hair entirely._ He'd fetched his T and some clothes and his textbooks already, but the rest of his wardrobe and his stash of hidden candy from home might be nice to have at the new place. _Not to mention my new straight razor I got for my birthday._ It's so rare to receive a present from his grandfather that he could actually cherish. In fact, it's so rare he can't recall it ever happening before. _Maybe they finally accept me. No, probably not. What a crock of shit it is being trans. Assholes._

He's worked himself into a right state by the time he arrives at the dorms. Thus, when he pushes the door open, he doesn't bother to knock or anything — instead, he opens it wide, finding himself staring directly into Alistair's eyes as his roommate sits on his bed, across from the door.

"Uh. Hi," Carver manages, coughing slightly.

"Ahhh!"

Clearly not expecting a sudden roommate, Alistair jumps in surprise, sending his textbook to the ground and the pencil he had been balancing on one finger flying across the room to land behind Carver's desk. The blond gapes at Carver for a second longer, then relief and worry shift his look of surprise to a worried frown. "Hey! You're here! I mean, you're here. Wait."

"Uh— sorry, don't you have drill?" he asks, blinking. "I can come back later..."

That gets a stare and even more concern. "Huh? It's Monday? Drill is Tuesdays and Thursdays for the blade team. It's rifles today, remember? And the Knight-Corporal said he'd rather marry a sloth demon than let me ever touch a rifle in the same state as him?" He starts to get up, thinks against it, and just shifts awkwardly for. "You okay?" _What? Of course he isn't, why did you even ask that question? Idiot._

"I wouldn't know any of that crap," he snarls. "I'm not a Templar, remember? They wouldn't let me."

Now pissy, he heads for his dresser, pulling out a plastic grocery bag and stuffing clothes into it.

_Oh well done dumb-dumb. Bravo_. "Fuck, sorry," Alistair mumbles. "Umm. So. I, uh, I haven't seen you around since this weekend? What's up?"

"Just. You know. Stuff." Belatedly, he adds, "I'm moving off campus. Nothing personal."

Alistair stares for a few seconds. "You can just do that?" he finally manages to ask. _Surprised more of the rich kids don't do that then._

"Well, no? I mean, there's supposed to be paperwork. Look, just don't tell anyone, okay?"

_Huh_? "Oh! Oh, I get what you— ah, yeah, sure. I mean, no, sure?" Alistair shakes his head, hair swishing like floppy ears. "I won't say anything to anyone, promise. But, uh, what brought all this on?"

"Homecoming," he says like a dirty word. " _Somehow_ ," he adds, and that somehow sounds a lot like 'Samson', "everyone found out about me afterward. So it's not safe here anymore."

"Found out whaaaaaa?" is the blank reply. Cough. "Oh."

"Yeah, it turns out, someone I trusted is a dirty fucking snitch who sold me out and now the faculty are harassing me about being a man and the other kids are— anyway, I just came to get my stuff, when I thought you'd be out."

Alistair flinches, eyes lowering to the bedspread. "I uh, I didn't... I mean, it wasn't... you need a hand?" He winces again, hating how inane he sounds. _Why was it so much easier to talk to Teddy?_

_Yeah, that's what I thought_. "You're a real fucking pill, Alistair. I hope you're happy."

Alistair stares, confused at Carver's response. "What? Why are you—" He shakes his head again. "What was that for?"

"Come on, I know you're the one who spilled."

Alistair's look of confusion intensifies, then morphs into righteous indignation. "The heck Carver?! What have I ever done to make you think I'd— that I'd do that to you?" he demands.

"Samson and Steve sure wouldn't — they were having too much fun with me as their little plaything. Maybe you were feeling left out because they didn't invite you to _homecoming_ ," he adds, his voice a sneer of pain and hatred.

"What are— why would I want to go to Homecoming with _either_ of them?" Alistair demands, flushing at the implication. "I had a great time with Teddy anyway." He frowns, almost reaching a scowl. "Besides, if I was pissed at anyone, it'd be Steve for hurting Maribell and making Teddy have to bail to take care of her. Why would I take it out on you?"

"What, you don't fucking remember what they were planning? The whole hotel thing?"

And the look of confusion returns. "Hotel plans? You mean after your birthday party? I mean, sure, I guess? What about them?"

"No, you dumbass, for after Homecoming."

"I can't not remember something I never knew about," the blond fires back, his innately laid back nature failing to hold up under all of this.

"How the hell did you not know?!" But as he thinks about it, he can't recall them discussing their plans in front of Alistair. "You were always hanging about," he says, a little less fire in his voice. "You must have heard."

"I..." Alistair looks away, suddenly awkward. "I, uh, haven't been invited to 'hang around' with them, like, at all really of late." He shrugs. "Which... isn't as bad as I would have thought honestly."

"Yeah, well, I'm out, so you can have my invites in the fucking future." Shoving the last of his boxers into the bag, he turns to go.

"What _happened_ Friday night?" Alistair demands, done with all this dancing around and half explained references.

"Find out for your own self. I'm done." Carver shakes his head, pulling open the door. "I'll be off-campus with my bodyguards."

"Just like that," Alistair asks a bit numbly, the hollow pit in his stomach presumably formed by whatever lump is lodged in his throat. _I knew... I mean, I was afraid none of them liked me really but if any of them... even Carver is done with me. How long will Teddy and their friends let me be around? First Tommy and his cousins when I was little, then my half-brother, now Samson and his friends in high school. What do I keep doing wrong? What am I missing?_

* * *

Beth spends the next three hours chanting 'let it be what it is' over and over to herself. She grabs a shower. She does her hair up and puts on makeup. She takes the makeup off. She puts a hint of lip gloss and blush on. She changes her hair. She cleans her dorm. She eats a granola bar, then two candy bars. She glares at her clothes. She puts out candles but stops before lighting the first one. She browses Pinterest for a while. She snacks on some trail mix. She changes her outfit again. She thinks about the small box under her bed with last years textbooks laying atop some far less academic items.

"Let it be what it is. Let it— Fuck!" Beth presses a hand to her chest, her heart racing as she looks at the door. "Showtime," she mutters before going over to open it.

Teddy has spent the last hour and a half trying to figure out what to wear— so much so, that they end up being five minutes late. The look on Beth's face is worth it. They've picked jeans — dressy jeans — but they've laced themself into a blue overbust corset: originally purchased to make them look like Cinderella in last year's production of Into The Woods, it's now most typically worn with a cowgirl hat to make them look stylish and Western. Today, it's worn with a little half-jacket and no shirt, leaving their nearly nonexistant cleavage looking much more mature and adult. They've brushed their usually-wild hair, tying it back into a ponytail, and put on a necklace with a small amber droplet and matching amber earrings.

"Hey," they say aloud, in a low purr.

Beth smiles, eyes dipping down and back up Teddy. "Hey," she says back softly. "Love the earrings." She bites her bottom lip, then belatedly steps back with a wave. "So, umm, how was class?" A bit nervously, she smooths down her dress, wishing she'd worn something less girly for some reason. _Shoes. I should have put on some heels or something. No, that's dumb. I'm always barefoot around the dorm, why do I feel underdressed and slovenly all of a sudden? Damn they've got a fine ass._

"Fine."

Despite their best efforts— relaxing, drinking soothing tea, reading a book, generally trying to get into the least anxious state possible — words are still a bit hard for Teddy Joudain today. One or two isn't bad, but sentences get into dangerous territory. _Don't panic_ , they tell themself firmly as they settle on the bed. _It's just Beth. Well. Beth with kissing._

Beth glances at them, debating on whether she should remark on Teddy's speaking. _No, just make them self-conscious, I think._ "Cool. Cool. So, uh, I have some soda if you want. Or sparkling water?" She shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

"Water," they repeat, because it's easier than asking what kind of soda. They smile, trying to put Beth at ease.

"I forget how pretty your voice is," Beth blurts out. "But, uh, you can text or sign too. If you want."

Teddy nods, signing a quick "thanks" before saying aloud, "'sfine."

"If you're sure. Anyway. Water." She heads over to the minifridge to get them drinks. "Had a good talk with my brother. Garrett. Helped settle me a bit."

"Good," says Teddy, cheerily.

"Yeah. Garrett can be wild and reckless— and I'm not super thrilled with some of his views about women— but he's a great brother. Anyway." Drinks served and smalltalk had, she takes a deep breath. _It's just Teddy. Been friends for ages. Stop freaking out. It'll be fine, however it goes. It'll be what it is._ "About— about this afternoon."

Teddy nods. "I enjoyed it."

"Me too," Beth admits softly, ducking her head. "What, umm, what did you think? I mean, what've you thought about it since?"

"I... enjoyed it?" says Teddy again, rubbing the back of her neck. "I would like to do it again." These two sentences they had practiced in their head the whole way here, hoping they would be all that were needed. _It seems Beth has other ideas in mind._

"Okay, common ground so far," Beth says with a nervous laugh. "What else?"

Teddy spreads their hands, unsure what else to say.

"Like... Hold on," Beth says, grabbing her phone and tapping at it quickly. "Okay. Umm. Both of us are interested, get along, so next is..." She skims quickly. "Exclusivity."

Teddy shrugs. _I didn't really think that far ahead._

Beth gives Teddy a frustrated look.

Teddy sighs, picking up their phone to text: "I just want to make out. Dating is good too. Didn't think that far ahead."

Beth says a little. "Sorry, I just— I need to be on the same page as you, which requires us both to check the number. So you're thinking friends with benefits? Friends as always but also sometimes we make out or fool around?"

Teddy texts, "were you thinking girlfriend because I can do girlfriend. But I just got my heart broken so..."

"Not girlfriend is fine," Beth says quickly. _Shit. That wasn't how I meant to say that_. "Sorry. I just mean, one, like you just said for you. And two, I'm super not out. I can't be out, especially at school. Double especially given how much the school is already going after Carver."

Teddy nods. "So secret kissing partners," they type. "Cool. I'm down."

Beth blinks a few time. "Really? Just like that? Oh." She stares at Teddy, feeling a bit dumb at stressing so bad now.

Teddy smiles. "Yeah," they say aloud, with a goofy grin. "Wanna...?"

Beth wracks her brains for any problems or reasons to say no and... "Let me set an alarm, just in case we, err, get distracted. Really distracted."

"Okay," says Teddy, with a grin. _Beth's so great._


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver and Beth haven't spoken in person since the morning after homecoming, when Carver was in a rough spot and Beth was feeling a little off-kilter. Meanwhile, Cullen's told the school what happened to Carver, and they're not going to just let that go...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: self-harm and suicidal thoughts, incest implications

**B😎stB😉th** : hey. was hoping maybe we could eat lunch together? Miss you.  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : no  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : but r u ok?

Four minutes later, he gets a reply.

B😎stB😉th: why not? How about dinner? or before/after  
MyNameIsCarver: dun wanna hurt you  
MyNameIsCarver: u should stick clear until i sotp being so angry

A pause just as long.

**B😎stB😉th** : you won't. I trust you  
 **B😎stB😉th** : it was scary  
 **B😎stB😉th** : and it hurt  
 **B😎stB😉th** : hurts  
 **B😎stB😉th** : I just wanted to help. still do.  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : You shouldn't trust me  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : i don't trust me  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : im getting help tho  
 **B😎stB😉th** : really? That's great!  
 **B😎stB😉th** : anything I can do too?  
 **B😎stB😉th** : even if it's dumb. Need anything from your dorm maybe?  
 **B😎stB😉th** : I still want to see you. what if we weren't alone?

Carver doesn't respond until lunch, class beginning before he figures out what to send back. Finally, he sends:

**MyNameIsCarver** : I have most of my stuff but theres a package in my mailbox at the dorm. I guess you can bring it to the Chargers after school. Maybe we can hang a little.

Beth's reply is almost instant. Maybe she was already on her phone?

**B😎stB😉th** : absolutely!  
 **B😎stB😉th** : will pick up &bring tonight  
 **B😎stB😉th** : could stop for Indian 4 dinner?  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : I can have Bull order it  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : he eats a lot  
 **B😎stB😉th** : more than you?! }:‑P  
 **B😎stB😉th** : k.  
 **B😎stB😉th** : will get pie for Afters then  
 **B😎stB😉th** : let me know if lemon not okay  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : Lemon is fine  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : chill  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : its just family  
 **B😎stB😉th** : is he? cool  
 **B😎stB😉th** : still want 🥧  
 **B😎stB😉th** : (ask him tho. Allergies)  
 **B😎stB😉th** : miss you  
 **B😎stB😉th** : Garrett call you?  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : he tried  
 **B😎stB😉th** : tried?  
 **B😎stB😉th** : tried how?  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : he called  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : i didn't pick up  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : should i have?  
 **B😎stB😉th** : maybe?  
 **B😎stB😉th** : helped me to talk with him  
 **B😎stB😉th** : (even if he's way overprotective)  
 **B😎stB😉th** : (and hypocritical.but the so Ami)  
 **B😎stB😉th** : think it over. Maybe text him back?  
 **B😎stB😉th** : * but then so am i  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : i don't really wanna talk 2 him.  
 **B😎stB😉th** : Okay =hugs=

The dinner goes well enough. The twins are a bit awkward with each other, especially at first, but they're careful to avoid pushing and eventually the pair relax. There's still a subtle tension, an awareness that lines were crossed and feelings hurt, an understanding that for perhaps the first time in their lives, there's a subject neither can broach with the other. But it's better. They don't argue. They have fun. They take the first steps to healing. They talk and laugh.

They hug goodbye.

* * *

It's good that Carver has that evening to remember. That he and Beth talk to each other at school again, chat online in the evenings again. Over the next couple of days, those things and his refuge with the Chargers is all that keeps him going to school. Or going on at all. His social isolation continues, worsening to the point that even the teachers are starting to notice and ask questions. Worse, the soccer team has moved beyond outcasting Carver and onto outright hazing as punishment for getting Steve kicked off the team. So far, all of it is minor stuff: mostly harmless body checks in the halls, peanut butter on his locker dial, and the classic 'kick me' sign.

Five days after Homecoming, Carver is impatiently waiting for the end of day bell to finally ring when someone knocks on the door to his lit class. The teacher goes to answer it with an annoyed look, one that shifts quickly to surprise. A quick conversation ends with him turning to the class. "Amell, get your stuff. You're being taken to the nurse's office."

Carver blinks, stomach twisting. _The nurse? But I'm not sick?_

He knows better than to argue, just as he knows better than to retaliate against any of the "pranks" going on against him. Head down. Don't make waves. He nods, packing up his things quickly and quietly before scooting off to the nurse's.

When he steps out into the hall, two of the school security officers are waiting there, along with a female elf in crisp business attire. She looks him over, glancing at a clipboard in her hand, then nods. "Very good. Lead the way," she says to one of the security men, who grunts an acknowledgment. Before Carver can say anything, or even really decide if he should, she resumes talking. Not a conversation, but rather a steam of light small talk that serves to both prevent Carver from asking questions and put him at ease with how bland and unthreatening it is. Or at least that's the intention.

It doesn't take long to get to the nurse's office, where things get a lot more nerve wracking. Not only is Mother Peony speaking quietly with the head nurse, there are also two full Templar Carver doesn't recognize from the facility and a woman perhaps Marian's age there as well. She's tall, with looks more striking or handsome than pretty, a scar on her cheek that's gotta be from a blade and, most importantly, the uniform of a Seeker. Not just a recruit, but a full Seeker. While some might confuse Seekers with the Wardens, assuming them to be elite forces, Carver knows Templar and Chantry structure well enough to know that the Seekers of Truth are investigators of the highest order. Which is not to say they're not lethal fighters, simply that they get far more training in detective work and research than Templar do.

_She looks terrifying. And familiar._ Carver racks his brain, trying to figure out where he's seen the Seeker before.

Hearing the door open, Mother Peony looks over towards the door. "Mi—? Carver Amell. Good." She glances past him at the two security guards and nods. "Thank you, you can both resume your normal duties." Looking back at Carver, she gestures for him to take a seat on one of the examination tables.

Carver hops up, swallowing. "I'm not sick," he says quietly.

"That remains to be seen," she replies, frowning at him. "There have been some... disturbing reports being made, with you figuring at the center of them."

Clearing her throat, the elf steps forward. "If I may, Mother Peony?" The sister frowns, but inclines her head. "Thank you. I am Miss Tempest. I'm a social worker and registered nurse with the state and part of the Templar joint-ventures force. How're you doing today? I bet you're a bit worried, huh?"

Carver nods, silent, mouth dry. _I'm not a child_ , he thinks, but he doesn't dare say it.

She frowns a little. "Carver?" she prods him. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm fine," he says quietly. "What do you need?"

Miss Tempest purses her lips. "I need you to be honest with me, okay? I know it can be hard, especially when you've been lying about things for so long." Across the room, the Seeker frowns, her expression impatient, but she doesn't do anything as yet.

"Alright," he says quietly.

"Now. How are you really?"

"Coping." _Badly._

"Coping from what?" Tempest tries to coax from Carver. She steps closer, a gentle smile in place as she approaches. "It's okay. We're here to help you."

"I— I don't need your help," he says quietly. "I was... I was attacked, but I've been healed. I'm _fine_."

"It was more than just an attack, Miss Amell," Mother Peony says sharply, scowling.

_Miss miss miss miss miss miss miss—_ Carver pales, his mouth opening as he stares. "I— I'm a boy. A man. Mister Amell, not— not miss."

"Now now," Tempest says soothingly. "We can discuss that and it's implications later. Right now, we're focused on you and making sure you're really okay and able to get even better. Tell us about this attack from your perspective."

"I— I don't think I should," he says quietly. "Who are you? Why are you doing this?!"

"I suppose I didn't really explain who I am to _you_ , specifically," she allows. "I'm a nurse for the State Department, though I'm on long term assignment to the Key Tower Templar Division. As for why, well, there has been a very credible report of a serious crime committed by two Templar recruits. Of course the church needs to look into it."

"A— who gave this report?"

"I'm afraid I'm not able to tell you that," Mother Peony says firmly. "Anonymity is for their protection."

"It doesn't matter," Miss Tempest adds. "Right now, we're focusing on you! But for us to help you, we need the truth from you. It would be ever so much easier if you were to just volunteer honest answers."

_So much easier_ , he thinks bitterly. _That sounds like something out of a Bond film. 'it will go easier for you, Bond, if you give up your contact'. Then he says 'never' and they— oh. Shit._ Carver swallows. "I don't need your help. I'm a man, and I was attacked but I got healed, and that's all there is to it."

"No you are not, and no it is not," Mother Peony snaps. "After having your deception brought to my attention, I looked into the matter and you are a _woman_ , Miss Amell."

"I am not! I am a man, a trans man. A transgender man. I was assigned f-female at birth but I'm a man now, I've been on hormones for almost two years, I had my birth certificate amended, I'm a _man_."

"I do not care what deviltry and deceit you've undertaken to portray yourself this way." Before the Mother can continue, the Seeker pushes forward.

"Enough," she snaps, her voice like a blade. She has a hard but not displeasing accent, something from eastern Europe perhaps. "Debate with the child his own existence later, I care nothing for that. I will have your testimony on the unacceptable behavior of Templar recruits. I will not tolerate such disgusting actions by anyone, but certainly not by those sworn to the Maker's service."

"I'll talk to her," says Carver instantly. "Only her. Nobody else."

"Abso—"

"All of you get out," the Seeker orders. She doesn't raise her voice. Doesn't glare or touch her sword or make any kind of threat. She just gives them all an order with the absolute knowledge they _will_ comply. "Now."

The Mother's face reddens, but she doesn't argue again. "So be it, Seeker Pentaghast. If you wish to take this all on yourself, then the duty is yours. I shall see to updating her records and housing." With that, she stalks out of the room, the school nurses gratefully fleeing as well. The two Templar present leave as well, standing just outside the door. One holds it open, pointedly staring at Miss Tempest until she accedes as well.

As they leave, Carver begins shaking, unable to hold himself still anymore. "Sorry," he whispers, lowering his eyes. "I'll talk. I just— I just couldn't take one more 'miss Amell'." After a brief pause, he adds, "You're Tony's sister, aren't you? Pentaghast."

She studies him for a moment, then nods. "Yes. That will have no bearing on this," she adds in not quite warning.

"Tony's good people." _Most of the time._ He takes a deep breath. "Maybe you're good people too. Alright. It was after homecoming. They wanted me to get them a hooker and I couldn't and so they— they used me instead. I fought them, they had to beat me and tie me up first."

"Used sexually? A nod or— thank you. I cannot imagine that it is easy to admit this." She's taken out a parchment and pen as they talk to take notes, though she watches him indirectly as she does so. "Where did this occur?"

"Grand Suites hotel."

"Very good. Can you give me your best approximation of what time this took place?"

The Seeker continues to ask him questions, tone polite and formal, never judging or negative. She's through, exacting and relentless in her investigation but does so in a skillful manner. When Carver can't talk about something, she redirects, asks questions about something else, and works her way back to it. Finally, she sets the parchment in front of him and asks him to read it over and sign the bottom if he feels it accurate.

He signs it without so much as reading it. "Are we done?" he asks quietly. "Math is almost over."

Cassandra studies him for a long moment, then sighs. "My interview is over, yes. But I suspect that your trouble over this event will last for a long time from now. Miss Tempest will still want her rape kit test done and the Mother seemed... adamant about taking you to task over... your records."

"It doesn't matter. I'm going to drop out of school forever."

"I believe you require parental permission for that, do you not?" she asks, brow furrowing.

"Then I'll run away. It doesn't matter. My life here is over."

Something about how he says that, his posture, his eyes, _something_ , catches her attention like a hook. "Are you a risk to yourself?" she barks, suddenly in his face with no warning.

"I—" he stammers, pulling back. "N-no!"

"Good. See to it that remains the case," she replies curtly, stepping back. Evidently that's done then? "Would you like a few moments to collect yourself? When I leave, I suspect the others will return to continue their own agendas and duties."

"Yes," he whispers, bowing his head. _I'll message Beth. Let her know what's happening, so she's not blind-sided._

_This is not right. And yet what else can I do? I have to authority over the school save for what I need to conduct my investigation._ "Is there anyone I can call for you?" she finds herself offering.

He shakes his head. "I'll text my sister. Thank you. Actually, wait. I have a bodyguard— Iron Bull. If I call him, maybe he can pick me up early? If they let me go home."

_Iron Bull? A most unusual name. A nickname perhaps? Or something taken to make himself sound tougher for his work?_ "I will do what I can to permit this," Cassandra replies. She smiles thinly at him, the expression looking not fake but a little forced, as if she's not sure how to do it properly. She falls silent then, giving him some time to collect himself.

**MyNameIsCarver** : SOS  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : schl knows abt Carol  
 **B😎stB😉th** : Bull otw, watcher reported  
 **B😎stB😉th** : hold tight  
 **B😎stB😉th** : almost there  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : they wnt a rape kit  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : dun let them tch me  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : plx  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : i cant  
 **B😎stB😉th** : Stall  
 **B😎stB😉th** : just another minute or 2

Cassandra carefully ignores the soft buzz of a phone getting messages. _If they didn't want him reaching out, they should have taken his phone. It is none of my concern. I am tasked with ensuring the recruits of this school obey the Maker's laws and then our own_. After a moment longer, she rises to her feet. "I am sorry, but I cannot delay more," she says, nodding her head towards the door where the Mother and Miss Tempest can be heard. "Stay in the Maker's grace."

"Thank you," he says quietly. "Thank you for treating me like a person." He glances down at Beth's message, then asks, suddenly, "Wait— before you go— how does someone become a Seeker?"

Cassandra pauses, the door already open a few inches, and glances over her shoulder. "Beg pardon?" she asks, ignoring the questions from outside the room.

"If I wanted to become a Seeker, like you. How would I do it? Would I have to be a Templar first? Or is it separate?"

_Why is he suddenly—_ Her eyes dip to the phone still in his hand and she has to fight back a laugh. _Clever lad. I am not a recruiter, but it is expected for us to take at least a few moments to make the, ah, sales pitch, as it were._ Still blocking the door— by accident, of course— she nods. "I see. Yes, the Seekers are drawn from the ranks of the Templar, though we do sometimes sponsor someone to enter Templar training specifically to become a Seeker afterwards. However, we only accept the best and most devoted. Seekers must be above temptation, be it from fellow mortals or demons."

"So it'd be a problem if I don't believe in Andraste? Because I'm not sure if I do or not." _Just keep talking, please keep talking._

"Miss, if you're done, we need—"

"That is Seeker Pentaghast," Cassandra snaps, not bothering to look behind her. "Yes, it..." She pauses, frowning. _Actually... the oaths are to His ideals. To upholding Church law regardless of politics or practicalities, so that we never allow the mundane world to overrule our emulation of the Golden City_. "And no," she finally corrects herself. "It would make things very difficult, as it is hard to uphold the Ethos and Laws of a being you do not believe exists to the required degree, but there is no rule that specifically requires that belief."

"It's just— the Chant sounds great and all, but things like this keep happening and I— I'm worried I'm losing my faith altogether. Do you have any advice?"

"Trust in the Maker and His Bride. Mortals are fallible. Corruptible. Even the best among us is Blackened by sin." Cassandra replies after a moment. "Read the Bible well, yes, but it is the Chant that speaks most clearly. Cleave first to the words of Blessed Andraste, then the Divines, then others ordained."

"How can I trust the Chant when those who follow it most closely are the most Blackened? Maybe I'll take up the Qun instead."

There's an explosion of protests and demands from the hallway where people can evidently hear Carver's question. Cassandra herself gives him a hard look, not well pleased by the direction of his stalling. "The Chant itself is divinely inspired. Holy and flawless. Those that sing it, however... But that is why the Seekers exist, to discern when those who uphold the Maker's Chant have gone astray. Just as we, in turn, are held accountable by the Divine."

"Did you investigate what happened to my brother?" Carver protests. "He was almost made Tranquil for no reason at all. And my sister was said to have been Annulled but it was a lie, they abandoned her in a blizzard instead. And now this."

"That would be far above my authority, a task for the Lord Seeker himself," Cassandra replies carefully, trying to recall if she'd heard any whispers about such a thing lately. Before she can say more, someone yanks the door out of her grip to reveal the hallway.

"Enough. Seeker Pentaghast, your investigation is complete," Mother Peony snaps. "Thank you for your assistance but we must now tend to our own issues with Miss Amell."

Carver shrinks back, swallowing hard. _I'm out of time, Beth, I hope you're ready!_

"Of course, Mother Peony. I am sure Carver is perfectly safe in your hands, bound by the love and mercy of Blessed Andraste as they are," Cassandra says coolly. Turning, she inclines her head to Carver, then steps out into the hallway.

The Mother scowls after her before moving towards Carver. Behind her, Miss Tempest and the school nurse follow, the last closing the door once more. "Now then. Disrobe so Miss Tempest can perform the rape kit test."

"No," he whimpers, loud enough for the Seeker to hear. "Please, I don't want to!"

"Miss Amell, this matter is not up to—"

The door is pushed open again, the sleeve of a black uniform showing for just an instance before Beth burst into the room, cell phone lit up and held above her head. She can't talk due her need to take deep, ragged breaths of air, but she doesn't have to.

"This is Malcolm Hawke," says the speakerphone. "What's going on with my son?"

Mother Peony's head whips around, looking poleaxed at the sudden entrance. "Wh-what? Who— what is the meaning of this?"

"I should ask you the same! Why is there an investigation regarding my son and I was not informed?" demands the voice over the speaker.

"Dad," cries Carver in relief. "Dad, make them stop, I don't want to do it!"

Beth is still sucking in air, one hand braced on her knee as she hunches over with her now messy hair slick with sweat. But she still manages to summon up a death glare to rake the three women with.

"She is not your son, she is—"

" _Carver_ is my _son_ , and I'll have you sued if you continue to slander him in this way." Mal's voice is firm as iron. "This sounds like it constitutes harassment; release him into the care of the guards I sent along at once."

Her face fills with color. "Something must be untrue for it to be slander, Mister Amell. If this even is Mister Amell and not some friend of the children."

"And my son is a man. You'll be hearing from the family lawyer on that point. Come, Carver, let's go."

"Take one step and I'll be forced to suspend both of you!" Mother Peony shouts. "I have no proof you are who you say you are and so I am still acting as-"

"Call him," Beth pants out. _Need to be more active. Magic is super diet, not exercise_. "You have— number. 'mergen-cy contact."

That pulls her up short, allowing Miss Tempest to step in. "Sir, your... child was assaulted, perhaps raped. Don't you want justice for he— ah, them?"

"All I can hear is you traumatizing him again. I can give the emergency code phrase if you like."

"It can be hard, to do what your child needs instead of what they beg you for," Miss Tempest says gently. "But you have to. For their sake."

"Mister Amell, sir." In the doorway, a figure with a face mask and heavy clothing stands with their hands loose at their sides, mere inches from the pair of dully gleaming knives hang from a belt. "Shall I extract your children?"

Mal says only two words: "Do it."

"Come with me kiddies," the slim newcomer orders. "Getting you out of here."

Beth smirks at the three adults and reaches out a hand to Carver. "Here. Dad—" She pauses, then shifts to stilted Mandarin to tell him that she'll call when they're safe.

"I will not allow this to—"

The bodyguard steps forward. "Their legal guardian just told me to extract them. You try and stop me, I have a legal right to assume you're kidnappers. Savvy, sh-itheads?" Miss Tempest steps back with a terrified squeak and the nurse has already moved to the back of the room, well out of the way. Mother Peony is made of sterner stuff, but she's also not fool enough to start this fight by herself.

Carver rushes forward, throwing his arms around his twin to sob on her shoulder.

"I've got you, ma'win," she murmurs against his temple. She tries to stop her own tears and at least manages to keep it to slow drips. "Come on." Moving carefully, she leads him out of the room with their bodyguard covering them. Without diversion, Beth leads them to the track field where a large truck is waiting with blatant disregard for the grass. In no time at all, they're away from the school, heading towards safety.

* * *

Carver doesn't speak once the whole truck ride back to the Charger HQ.

He doesn't speak when his father asks to speak with him over the phone, simply shaking his head. He doesn't speak as he lays his head in Beth's lap, crying himself silently into a nap. He doesn't speak as he wakes, nor does he eat the food put in front of him. He doesn't speak as he gets up, wanders to the bathroom, locks himself in.

He doesn't speak, but he does look for his straight razor.

'Talk to someone'

Carver crumples, dropping to his knees, staring at the note left in place of his razor. _Talk to someone._ The idea seems foreign, far away. There's only ever been one person he can talk to, one person who had his back, and now he's lied to her and told her nothing was wrong and how can he breach that gap, how can he talk to her now, how can he admit the enormity of what's wrong inside him? _Talk to someone_. Bull. Mal. Varric. Beth. Anyone. But how can he? When there's just so much wrong inside, and he's so tired, his body feels so heavy he's not even sure he can get up?

"Thank you," Beth murmurs to someone as she slips inside the previously locked bathroom. Without a word, she sits down next to carver and lifts her arm in invitation.

Carver turns to Beth, leaning against her, letting her wrap her soft, warm arms around him, letting her comfort his body.

"I want to die," he whispers, the admission heavy in the air between them. "They're going to make me enroll as a girl and I'd rather be dead."

"No," Beth grits out, panic cutting into her. _I can't. He can't leave me. He can't. I won't let him. I can't lose my twin. I can't._ "No," she repeats. "We'll withdraw. Run away. Anything."

"Let's go, then." He swallows. "I have cash, I was going to pay Bull back. Let's run away."

Beth nods against his shoulder. "I have some tucked away too. We just need to get back to Kirkwall. Varric can hide us. he hates mom and her parents, he'll do it for sure."

But Carver is already shaking his head. "We can't trust anyone. We go North, get lost."

"Why don't you trust Varric?" Beth asks, startled. "Why north?"

"No-one but you. Right ma'win? Just you and me."

Beth hesitates, tightening her grip on him. "Carver, talk to me. What's going on? What _happened?_ "

"It was Varric's fault. I asked him for help and he betrayed me. I ended up hurt because they thought he was a cop."

"What?" Beth demands. "When? What?"

"I needed help and they— they hit me because they thought I was ratting them out. Because of his stupid bouncer. If he'd told me what I needed I wouldn't have been— It doesn't matter. Let's just go."

Scowling, Beth half rises so she can straddle his lap. Now pinning him in place, she pokes him in the chest with a finger. "Explain. Stop hiding things from me. Stop blaming people and tell me what happened."

He looks away, unable to meet her eyes. "I was responsible for getting girls. For after homecoming. You and your friends wouldn't go with them and Varric wouldn't tell me how to hire a whore so they said— they said I was a girl and they—"

_No. No they— no. Not Carver. Not— not that. Please_. "I'll kill them," she says softly, fingers digging into his shoulders.

"It doesn't matter," he whispers. "The whole school will know about me soon. They'll all treat me like that."

"The hell they will," Beth growls. "Steve and his gang are evil. Sick, twisted monsters. You're my brother and I don't care what I have to do to make sure people know it. We'll figure it out."

"This is my fault," he whispers. "Because for my birthday Gamlen got us into a strip club and I got a VIP pass and she threw us out and called me a girl. They lost their money. I have been trying to pay them back this whole time."

Beth stares a moment trying to process this latest. "Wait— some transphobic bitch outs you and those asswipes react by— by demanding _money_? Assholes!" Leaning forward, she hugs him tightly. "Andraste's taint, I hate them."

He shudders, clinging to her. "I thought they were my friends. I thought if I made it up to them they'd..."

_Oh Carver. You're always so desperate to be wanted. I wish you could accept yourself_. "They don't deserve to be your friend. This wasn't your fault. Or mine or Varric's or anyone but theirs. They did this. They choose to do it. It's their sin."

Carver nods. "Steve and Samson and Cullen and Alistair."

"Alistair too?" Beth says with a disappointed sigh. "Damn. I had thought maybe..." She absently rubs his back. "Was it just— just the once? Is there more?"

Carver shakes his head. "Al was there the first incident, not the... Not after Homecoming."

"Okay," Beth says softly. "Is there more?"

He shakes his head. "We— they— they wanted to do a rape kit. To make me... Press charges. Someone told."

"Rape kit? But— it's been like a week now! What are they expecting to— Ugh!" Beth shakes her head. "Dumb. You should press charges. They belong in jail. But there's no need for them to do that."

"I don't want to. I just want this to go away."

Beth licks her lips. "It won't," she finally says. "You tried that with being a guy and it almost k-killed you. We got through that, we can get through this too. Together."

"I don't— they want to _touch_ me. To _see_. I can't. I'll die first."

"Arthur can nix that," Beth says firmly. "He managed to keep Garrett out of jail, he can easily make them waive a useless test."

"And they'll tell everyone I'm..."

"So we fight back. I have a lot of friends in a lot of places. We stand firm on it. You're a man. Full stop. We don't let anyone say otherwise with challenging it. Even the school."

"I'm a man." Carver takes a deep breath. "I'm a man. Okay. Okay. Thank— thank you."

"Damn right. You're a man. You're my brother. And we'll face down anyone that tries to say otherwise." Beth smiles at him, resting her forehead against his. "It won't be easy. Fuck, it's going to be really hard. It'll hurt. And we're going to lose some battles. But we won't give up."

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I should have trusted you right away."

_Yes, you should have._ Beth's smile wavers a little and she shrugs. "This is... This is bad. Really bad. You had to deal with bad before, but this was really bad. I wish you had. But I understand why you couldn't." She wrestles with her emotions, trying to work out what else she should say.

"I didn't want you to know," he whispers. "I didn't want you to know how stupid I was."

"You made a mistake. That doesn't make you stupid. It wasn't your fault and you didn't deserve any of it. Okay? Please believe me. Please."

"Okay," he whispers, his voice rough. "Okay."

"Do you believe it? Or are you just humoring me?"

"I can't quite. It's been torture, Beth. They've been calling me a girl the whole time. Since our birthday."

"Well, they're wrong," Beth says firmly. "They're trying to hurt you. Make you doubt yourself, so you won't talk to anyone or stand up to them."

"It worked," he says bitterly, but his eyes drift up to the note Bull left him.

Beth's eyes follow his gaze but she can't read it from his lap. "Well, now you know better, yeah? I won't always be able to help, but I'll always try. Okay? I promise on everything. I won't ever not try and help."

"I hurt myself. Before. When I was alone. I— I can't be alone anymore. I'll hurt myself. I need to... I need to find a way to live with this. To keep going, keep my head up. Maker. I can't hardly think and it hasn't even happened yet."

She can't stop the soft whine that slips out. "Carver." His name is nearly incomprehensible due to the lump in her throat. "Carver." Better that time. "I'm moving in here with you."

"Okay," he whispers. "Please stay."

"Always," Beth whispers back, reaching up to run her fingers through her hair. "Always, ma'win."

Carver leans forward, pressing his salty lips to hers, desperate for what comfort he can obtain.

His sister stiffens, her eyes widening as her brain goes blank. _Kissing? But— Carver? What—_ Thoughts awhirl, she just reacts. Fingers curl tighter in his hair, tilting his head back so the angle is more comfortable. She keeps her mouth closed, accepting the kiss without encouraging him.

After a moment he pulls back with a soft sigh. "Sorry," he whispers, keenly aware she's on his lap. "Sorry. You said we shouldn't—"

_Shouldn't..? Oh right. That_. "Well. This is... really unusual circumstances. So I think we can have a pass this time." She musters a smirk and pecks him on the nose with a kiss. "Wasn't a bad kiss for a guy."

"You're a lesbian, right? You don't like guys at all?"

"I _like_ plenty of guys, I'm just not _attracted_ to them for the most part. Sometimes a guy has really pretty eyes or slim, graceful hands and that catches my attention but..." She shrugs a little. "Same goes for some women but reversed. I like soft curves, long hair, slim builds, pretty faces. And butts. Maker, I love me a nice, round, tight butt. Err, sorry, that's probably TMI. Anyway. Did that make sense?"

Carver nods. "Do you... are you... ever attracted to me?"

_Is that what this is..._ "Not really. You have a nice face and your butt is okay, but..." She winces a little. "Sorry. You _are_ handsome and built, it's just... that's not my type." She cups his face.

"But if I got naked..."

"What would that change— Carver, I said I'm attracted to women, not guys with small dicks," Beth says firmly, tapping his cheek with a finger. "You've broad shoulders and chest, a muscled, solid build, strong hands, a face that's handsome more than pretty and you're tall. Plus you smell and sound like a guy." She bites her lip. "I could. Make love to you, I mean. But it would because I love you, because you're my twin and I would do anything for you, not because I'm attracted to your body."

Carver takes a deep breath. "You watch... porn and stuff, yeah? When they— I look— I look different. I don't know if any girl will ever want to..."

"Well. It won't— I mean, you're going to get the surgery done. So it won't be like it is now forever, right?"

Carver is silent for a long moment.

"Carver?" she prods him. "Talk to me, remember?"

"It's just... have you ever seen... I'm never going to look like a cis man, Beth."

"I have," Beth admits softly. "Some of them look pretty good. And you'd be able to get the best doctors and so forth. Besides, not everything is about dicks. Most females like them, sure, but not all of them. And not all of them want huge ones. And they have special toys that go over a dick, like a hollow strap on."

"But anyone I fuck will _know_."

"But not everyone will _care_ ," Beth says gently. "I don't think dicks are all that attractive looking— flesh or silicon— but if it's not a deal-breaker. If she was pretty enough, well. Let's put it this way; if I got Bells, Cyndi or Shan naked and turned out they had a cock? I'd still be offering to make them breakfast, wink-wink, nod-nod."

"But— but I don't want anyone to _know_. I don't want to be different! I just want to be a man, an ordinary man!"

Beth licks her lips. "And I wish I didn't have..." She hesitates, glancing over her shoulder, then mouths 'magic' at him. "We can't change what we are, just what we do about it. We get through this semester. We stay safe. Live here." She winces a little. _Teddy..._ "Stay together as much as possible. Bodyguard watchers. We fight back, with words and attitude. No violence 'cept self-defense. In that case, you kill if that's what it takes to stay with me, understood?"

Carver nods. "At least we know I don't have magic," he adds. _I'd have killed them if I had any power in me at all._

"Yeah," Beth says softly, stroking his hair again. "We'll hang out with my friends. Owain and Zev in particular. Jules and his friend Nick maybe, though they're on the soccer team so... maybe. Need to check that idea out first." She brightens a little. "We're doing auditions soon, for the fall play. You could try out for something. A role, if you want to try. Or we're always short of stagehands. You're strong and don't shirk. Good with your hands."

"I know Jules and Nick," he says softly. "They're good guys, like Tony. Oh. That was Tony's sister that came to talk to me, the Seeker. She— she's okay too. I told her what happened. She's investigating. Can that be enough? I don't want to tell anyone else."

Beth nibbles at her lip again, mulling that over. "How about... Can I call Dad or Varric? Discuss with this them, so you don't have to say it, and ask them? I'm worried they'll cover it up and they'll get away with it." She swallows thickly. "Maybe try again."

"...Varric .I'll call Varric. I talked to him afterward. I can— he knows most of it. I can admit the rest. I think. If you're holding me. Should I— should we call him now?"

"If you're up for it, best done soonest," Beth agrees. "And I'll stay right here, just like this." She pauses, then smiles. "Well, maybe like right here, your legs are probably falling asleep."

They adjust, sitting against the bathtub, Beth's arm around Carver's waist, as Carver reaches for his phone, dials. Waits while it rings once, twice. "Unca?" he asks, again, his voice small.

"Carver." Varric sighs with relief. "How're you holding up?"

"Bad. Did they tell you what happened today?"

"I know what your dad and escort knew," Varric replies. "And what the school and social worker think they know. So not all of it but some."

"They— they wanted to test me. Do a kit. And... and they're not wrong." He takes a deep breath, shuddering. "It happened."

"I figured," Varric admits with a pained sigh. "Did you... Bull got you healing, do you need anything else?"

"I don't want to testify, to press charges. But... Beth has a point, they might... they might hurt someone else. What are the options? I talked to the Seeker, is that...?"

"I'll talk to Bull's medic, help him make a medical report that'll pass muster. That'll help. If we can press charges without you having to testify or face them, are you willing? We can have you record your statement. Written or verbal. If not, there're other options. But that's the surest."

"Then... then, yes," he whispers. "I just can't— I can't keep going over it, I can't face cross examination, I can't..."

"Okay. We'll fly Arthur out to take lead on this. Do you want me to come out too?" _Garrett will pitch a stone cracked fit but he can't come with me._

"I think we're fine," Beth says softly from her spot snuggled up against Carver. "Oh! Actually, I did have an idea. Random factoid thing I ran into last semester, about school; there's rules permitting service dogs. Carver, you still want a mabari, right? You've talked about it before."

"Yes," breathes Carver. "A mabari would be great."

"I can arrange for paperwork to support the existence of a world that has Carver needing a service dog, sure," Varric says, chuckling softly. "Panic attacks and PTSD count. I don't think you have either, as far as I know, but then again, neither does the school. So."

"...what's a panic attack like?"

"Overwhelming. Your heartrate rockets up, you can't make choices but you feel like you _have_ to do something," Beth says quietly.

Carver shakes his head. "I get... I get to where I feel like I'm wrapped in cotton, I can't feel anything. Pain helps."

"Depersonalization disorder, says the studied amateur," Varric supplies carefully. "Or something similar. Feeling like you, your life, isn't real. Or isn't yours." He pauses. "Pain helps?"

"I— I hurt myself, when I get like that. Pain and blood."

Varric slowly breathes in and out, recalling a bloody knife, this time held by another dark hair young man. "Beth?"

"I'm not letting him out of my reach," Beth answers grimly. "Bathroom time will be awkward but we used to share showers all the time. We'll deal."

Coughing a little, Varric tries not to think about the results to a certain test. "Ah. Umm. I'll get that mabari to you ASAP. They'll be able to watch him while he's, ah, in need of privacy."

"Okay," whispers Carver.

"Maybe we don't need to fake the service dog papers. I mean, I don't actually care about them being faked but..."

Varric nods in agreement, not that they can see it. "Yeah. This isn't the sort of thing you just work past on your own. I can try and find a therapist out there, but worst to worst, I'll arrange for VR teleconference sessions." _Even if I have to buy the right therapist the equipment to make it work._

"I— I can't rehash this for a stranger, not again. But anything other than that and I'll... I'll try. I.. there's part of me that doesn't want to try anymore, that's just so tired, and, and it scares me. I don't want to hurt Beth. Not with my fists and not, not like that."

Beth leans up to kiss his cheek. "Thank you. If you want, if you'll let me, I can tell the therapist what happened. So they know, umm, context, but without you having to say it again."

"...Maybe unca can write it down for them?"

"Can do," Varric confirms. _I'll run it by Beth to fact check_. "Any preferences on your therapist? Style, approach, background or whatever?"

"A man. I had a woman before and... they don't understand everything as easy. They don't know how to be men."

"Hmmm. Do you care about nationality, aside from not anti-mage? With all the world to look, I can find a trans man to make sure he understands more."

"That'd be good. I think."

"Good, good. Alright. Is there anything else you can think of you need?"

"Permission for me to live off campus too," Beth says right away.

"On it. Carver?"

"I want to live with Beth. And, and we're going to have to do something about school. They said I'm— they said—"

"Trying to force you into ill fitting labels?" Varric offers gently. "Refuse to cooperate in any way. Don't answer to the wrong name or address. Use the men's room, safely. And so on. Don't budge an inch. If they push, calmly tell them that they are required to treat you according to your legal status. There'll be a lawsuit cooking away by tomorrow. Actually. Either of you object to having tomorrow off? That gets us to the weekend."

"Maker, yes, _please_."

"As long as we go back on Monday. I refuse to let them run us off. We're Hawkes and Hawkes don't run," Beth says firmly. "I suppose Amells don't either, but that's less about pluck and bravery and more about arrogance and money." She glances at Carver, hoping for at least a tiny smile at the admittedly weak joke.

But he just glances down at his lap, recalling his first idea: running away. Well, his second idea, anyway, after hurting himself. _I guess I'm not much of a Hawke._

_Shit. Dumbass_. Glancing at the phone, Beth leans over to press a kiss to the corner of Carver's mouth. "Hey. That's why we're a pair. We compliment each other."

"Maybe," he says, a little dubiously. "Sometimes I wonder if I was switched at birth. You're just so much better than me."

"I sometimes thought that... that the Maker realized He gave you too many challenges for any one soul to bear. So Andraste gave you a twin, to help you," Beth admits softly.

"That's nice," he admits. "I like that."

"Me too," Beth says almost shyly.

"Sounds like we have a plan," Varric says quietly after a moment. "Just a call or text away, alright? If either of you need anything, ask. Please."

"It's— it's hard. To ask, I mean. I can't... I don't get to have family. It's hard to remember I can have friends."

"Don't get to have family? Bit late for that, bucko," Varric says, deliberately making his voice amused.

"I destroyed our family. I don't get to lean on people anymore."

"The fuck you say?"

"No you didn't!"

"It's okay. I know what I did. And now they're finally getting divorced and cheating and..."

"Carver, stop it," Varric snaps. "This isn't your fault." He sighs. "Look, I love your father. He's my best friend and I respect him a great deal. But he was a damn fool to marry Leandra. They might have had sparks aplenty, but otherwise? Piss poor match doesn't even begin to cover it. They could have had zero kids or a dozen perfect children better than Andraste herself and they'd still have not worked out."

"I'm not sorry I did it. I had to do what I did. But I'm sorry it broke apart my family. You can say what you like but it's objectively true they fought more after I came out. It broke them apart, and it led to Marian coming out and being cast away, and after that Garrett was never the same— it broke everything."

"That doesn't make it your _fault_ ," Beth says firmly.

"They fought before," Varric adds softly. "It just wasn't about you, so you didn't notice as much. Nor did you coming out make Marian come out. She's too proud and too stubborn to have not come out."

"She found out she was bi because she started going to PFLAG meetups. Because of me."

Beth snorts. "Sweetie, no. I can assure you, she realized she loved her some wimmens well before then. I sure did. Just didn't have the proper name for it or didn't realize not everyone likes both. All rather."

"Did you know mom's been cheating on dad?"

"Half suspected for a long time but Mal didn't seem to want to know," Varric says with a shrug. "And I didn't care enough about her to look for myself."

"But you knew before now? You weren't surprised," Beth notes.

"Couple of months now. Mal needed help to work it out.*

"And Dad's cheating back— with the Iron Bull."

"Not cheating,*" Varric corrects Carver overtop Beth's squawked demand for an explanation. "They both agreed to an open relationship well before Mal so much as kissed anyone."

"They're still married! They swore oaths!"

"And they released each other," Beth says quietly. "It wouldn't be right if they didn't agree to it. Mom shouldn't have cheated before. They should divorce but that can be weird for rich people."

"I'm never getting married," says Carver, disgusted. "When I swear a vow, I keep it."

"Even if the one you swore to wants you to stop?" Beth asks, tone lacking judgment or patronization.

"I guess," he says, "but you divorce before you kiss anyone else."

"I don't blame you for thinking that way," Varric admits. "But your dad signed a really bad deal when he married Leandra. Not just money either."

"Then he should have been smarter."

"'Should have' is poison thinking. Learn from your mistakes, sure. But don't damn your future for them. Mal fucked up. Can't change that. He was young and in love, alone in the world, and given the chance for a family, for safety and for respect. He never had a chance."

"But he did fuck up. He doesn't deserve to get to cheat any more than— than my friends deserved a girl at homecoming."

"What? Carver, that's not anywhere close to being the same thing," Beth protests. "Rape and cheating are on way different levels."

"Sure, but it's the same thought: I didn't have a chance, so I deserve a girl. Or a Qunari or whatever. Instead of, I fucked up, now I don't get one."

"I see your point," Varric says slowly, ignoring the urge to point out 'qunari' isn't equivalent to 'girl' in this case. "Not sure that's how it went with Mal and Bull, but if that was the thinking, then yes, it'd be wrong. He should get a divorce. And he is, now that he has the leverage to do so without losing the two of you."

"How would he _lose_ us, we're still his kids. Just because he'd have to pay child support or whatever..."

"Our grandparents," Beth says quietly. "They never liked him. They'd have blocked him, wouldn't they?"

"Yes," Varric says quietly. "They've been threatening you and Carver to get Garrett to fall in line. They want their dynasty and don't care who they have to break into bits to get it."

Carver is quiet for a moment before he asks, "Can you... _take care_ of them?"

"Carver, not over a _phone_ ," Beth hisses.

Varric snickers, amused. "It's a considered option. Mal's managed to turn things on them, but he's worried about getting you lot hurt so he's moving slow and careful."

"Well I got hurt anyway," says Carver, his tone dark. "If I'd had surgery there wouldn't have been a problem."

"And it was them that stopped you from having it," Beth points out. Truth be told, she wouldn't be able to actually have her grandparents killed. In the heat of the moment, to save herself or a loved one, perhaps, but not cold. Slapping the shit out of them on the other hand? With great and delicious pleasure. "But what about now? Can Dad— I mean, you said he turned the tables, can he...?"

"I'll ask," Varric promises.

"I thought things would be better now that Grandfather... but they're not, are they? Things will never be better in my fucked-up family."

"Hey," Beth says indignantly. "Our generation has gotten better. I mean, a lot of bad shit has happened _to_... basically everyone but me this year but _we're_ still good."

"...I'm losing my faith," says Carver quietly. "If this keeps up... we're only young, still. By the time we're Mother's age..."

"There are worse things to lose," Beth says quietly. "I'm not Catholic at this point. Not sure if I'm Andrastian even. But given what the Church has tried to do to us this last year, I can't be all that broken up about it."

"But that's just it. I'm a good person because I believe," says Carver, urgently. "I believe in the Maker, I hold fast to His commandments, I obey the Chant, I uphold my vows. If I lose my faith, what's to stop me being as bad as Steve, if not worse?"

"I know. I know," Beth says, rocking against him. "I've been looking at other faiths. Elven and the Qun. I don't know if I'll find something better. For now, I'm just... trying to be who I was but without the faith. Trying to be good and kind anyway. I guess... I know this is dumb, but even though I hate the Church and can't trust the Maker, I still love Andraste."

"If the Maker's not real, she was crazy, or lying. Right?"

"I didn't say I didn't think He wasn't real. I just... He doesn't care. I mean, even the Church says He doesn't care about us anymore. He's probably real and around and all, but I mostly don't care? Andraste wanted to help, wanted good things for people. She tried. The Maker... it feels like all He does is punish people."

Carver nods. "... we should probably leave the bathroom at some point."

"Bathroom?" Varric echoes.

"Oh yeah. Right. We kinda went all over the place, didn't we?" Beth laughs weakly. "I feel like I need a nap."

"I, uh, I came in here looking for my razor, and Beth followed. A nap sounds great."

_Stone cracks, if Carver starts doing drugs, I'm getting a third eval of their genetics._ "Good for Beth. And good for you for talking to her. It's not easy to let people in."

"Thanks," he says shyly, glancing up at Beth. "Beth's my better half. The good twin. She didn't have to love me like she does, but that's just how amazing she is."

Beth blows a raspberry at Carver, blushing. "If I'm the good twin, then you're the great twin," she mumbles. "I know I'd hate the person I'd be without you."

"Come on," he chuckles. "Let's have a nap together. Just like old times."

Varric opens his mouth, then closes it. _Nope. Don't care right now. Besides, Carver's not likely to want anything like that for a while now._

"A nap does sound good," Beth agrees, resting her head against his again. "I found a new podcast we can listen to as we drift off. It's about ancient history and the reader has this really smooth voice."

"That sounds perfect." Carver plants a kiss on Beth's temple before adding, "Talk to you later, Unca."


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson and Andrea's date was interrupted at homecoming by Steve Carroll's little tantrum, but Samson promised to make it up to her soon. Well it's the next weekend, and the perfect time for their makeup date. Meanwhile, things continue to go badly for Carver...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: date rape, religious abuse, misgendering

Everglades National Park isn't far, as UP citizens define 'far', from Mother Terasis Academy. For a few hundred dollars a night, a man like Raleigh Samson can rent a houseboat and, assuming he has permission, be gone a whole weekend on 'family business'. Andrea's not officially allowed out, of course, but a few grand more convinces the guards at her dorm to look the other way while she goes with him to 'visit the folks'. It almost makes up for having to wait so long for their 'own private homecoming,' but she'd had to bail on his first plan due to illness, giving him time to plan a weekend trip to replace it.

He knows he's got her charmed when she pauses their necking to exclaim giddily that there are dolphins just off the boat behind him.

_I never knew there were dolphins out here_ , she thinks, staring down at the playful creatures just off the bow of the boat. _I always heard about gators and other horrid things, but dolphins? It's a good omen. I think. No, it is. I think I'm finally ready._

_Huh. Dolphins. Those are rare out here, aren't they? Good sign, if you buy that sort of bullshit. Dolphins, monkeys and elves are the only animals aside from humans that fuck for fun, I think. Seems fitting._ Tossing his shirt over the arm of the lounger chair, he takes the three steps needed to cross from the tiny cabin entrance to the side of the boat. "Pretty neat, right?" he murmurs in her ear. He pulls her back flush against himself with a hand on her stomach, enjoying the feel of her stomach through the thin shirt she's wearing.

_Wish she'd had the guts to wear a bikini, but not like she'll be wearing a damn thing soon enough. One piece is nice and tight at least._ "Oh right, here," he adds, shaking the glass in his other hand to make the ice clink. "It's a variation of a Fuzzy Navel. Little sweeter, little more kick." _And a lot better at making sure you don't let your stupidity slow us up again._

"Thanks," she says, with a shy smile. She takes a sip, but smirks at him a moment later. "Want a taste?"

"Of you? Constantly," he whispers hungrily, the hand holding her close starting to rub and stroke. He's still on her stomach, but he's slowly starting to drift downward.

That's all the invitation she needs; she twists, kissing him in a sloppy, open-mouthed way. _I'm ready. This is it. I'm almost glad I had to rub one out myself at Homecoming— I'd rather do it here on the deck, surrounded by dolphins and under the night sky._

Samson growls deep in his throat, the sound primal and demanding, and he spins her so she's pinned against the wall of the cabin. He grunts, then laughs a little as he feels her drink spill some on his leg. _Unlike Steve, I'm not going to ruin things over some spilt milk. So to speak._ He recaptures her lips briefly, then pulls his head back. His body is still firmly plastered against hers, his thigh grinding firmly, slowly, against her core.

"Should probably," he paused to suck on her lower lip, "finish that real quick." He grins at her to put a friendly, almost teasing air on the order, then pecks her lips twice rapidly to cement the tone. _She's ready and randy, but I'm not taking any chances I can avoid. I'm going to use every bit of her for the next sixteen hours and she's gonna beg for an encore._

_Finish— oh! My drink._ She gives a high, girlish giggle, then chugs the drink as fast as she can manage. _It's not lady-like but fuck it, I want this. I'm ready. I'm going to lose my virginity before those dolphins leave_. As soon as she's done, she hands the glass back to him, already moving in to kiss him again.

"Nice," Samson says, honest humor in his voice. He plucks the glass from her hand and tosses it absently to the other side of the boat, utterly and decidedly lacking fucks of any kind about whether it breaks or even lands inside the boat. Hands now free, he runs his hands up her back and grabs the straps to her suit. "Maker I want you naked," he murmurs. "I want you under me, wrapped around me, writhing and moaning and wet and _used_."

"Don't say it like that," she giggles, kissing him once more briefly. "Like I'm getting nothing out of this." _Like I'm a condom or something._ "I want you too. I want you inside me."

_We'll work on that then_ , Samson thinks to himself behind the mask. Offering a quick smile, he kisses the tip of her nose. "That was the 'wet and moaning' part," he replies, working the straps of her swimsuit off her shoulders. "I absolutely plan for you to get plenty and more out of this, my word on that, darling. In fact..." In a single, smooth motion, he pulls her suit down to her waist and bends down to capture a nipple with his lips.

Andrea throws her head back, resting the crown of it against the wall of the houseboat, and lets out a low, guttural groan. "Yes, like that, more," she begs, her head starting to swim. _Drank that alcohol too fast,_ she notes absently, but she doesn't care, all she cares about is Samson's tongue on her nipple, the pleasure mounting in her nethers.

_I could go for it right now,_ Samson thinks smugly, but he's too pleased with himself, with finally getting this, to not savor it. "Yeah?" he mumbles as he licks his way to the other tit where he grips it with his teeth. _Let's see where she's at with pain play. Start soft, but we're getting to spanking by midnight._ By the time he's working at her nipple, her bathing suit has pooled at her feet, leaving her entirely exposed. And he doesn't waste a second before he's stroking her cunt, thumb firmly pressing against her clit in a steady rhythm.

She swallows her next moan, but gasps out as he touches her clit. _Quiet, be. less of a slut._

"No," Samson says sharply, pulling his mouth off her briefly. "Don't hold it in, don't hold back. I want everything from you. Moan, whimper, scream, curse, beg; I want it all." Shifting slightly, he slides two fingers into her all the way to his palm, His thumb never leaves off her clit but he starts adding a side-to-side wiggle to ramp it up. "I want you to cum, I want you to tremble and— and just fucking everything. Let it all out, Andrea. Let yourself feel and do every little thing you've ever fantasized about and then dream up more."

"Yes, like that, little circles, Maker, yes!" she cries out, begging for more. _He's right, there's no-one around to hear. And it feels different with his hands, rougher, more sure, more firm. I can't predict what he'll do like I can with my hands. Maker, it feels good. I feel a little lightheaded, I shouldn't have chugged that drink, but I don't care, I don't, it feels good and I don't care if it's a sin._

"Good, good," Samson croons, indulging her by circling her clit with his thumb, grazing it with his nail as he does so. "Yeah, just like that, darling. Let go baby, let yourself go. I want to see you cum, cum for me baby, be my little slut and cum for me." He leaves off with her breasts for now, instead enfolding her in an embrace and kissing and nipping at her mouth in between his dirty talk. Displaying that his dexterity has more use than just combat drills and spars, he manages to start pumping his fingers in and out of her while still focusing on her clit.

She lets out a louder moan this time, and to Samson's surprise and delight, turns out to be quite vocal as he keeps pumping away. He tries probing for the g-spot, but he can't find it, not with his fingers; they're either too short or her g-spot is too deep to get much of a reaction. Still, judging by her gasps for "more, please, Maker!" she's loving everything he's doing.

When she comes, it's with a loud cry that echoes off the mountain behind them, the surface of the water. She ends up sinking down to the deck of the boat when she's done, panting for breath, naked and dripping.

Smirking broadly, Samson waits for her to focus on him before sliding his swim trunks down. His cock bobs as it's freed and, especially given his position above her, she gets a real eyeful. _Damn, this Viagra shit is serious. Never bothered with it before but it does add a nice boost to the E. I feel like I could fuck for twelve days, not just twelve hours. Heh. We're both going to be thankful for the healing potion cream I swiped come noon tomorrow._ "My turn," he says in a rough, commanding voice. He leans against the cabin wall, eyes dark and burning as he looks down on her, and widens his legs so she can kneel in font of him.

Andrea glances up and is met with her first full-on view of a penis in her life. She wouldn't know what a circumcised penis looks like, though her mental image rapidly becomes something like Samson's but with half of it mysteriously missing; Samson's hood is entirely intact, and it's clear he's ready for business. The rod before her is red, somewhat veiny, and— to her virgin eyes— impressively thick. Not as long as she'd imagined; she'd sat with a ruler or other phallic objects and tried to imagine them inside her, but to her unpracticed eyes, it seems much shorter than she was picturing before. Less like a snake and more like... well, like a body part, the skin slightly darker and ruddier than the rest of his sun-bleached skin but within the same range. It erupts from a nest of curly, dark pubic hair, smelling of musk and masculinity, trending up in an inverted v towards his rock-hard stomach. She doesn't think about the fact it must have taken time and effort to make his hair so perfectly even and well-shaped; Samson in this moment is a paragon of male fertility, perfect by nature as though the absent Maker himself had lavished him with attention.

Hesitantly, almost seeking permission with her eyes, Andrea reaches up with one slim hand and strokes two fingers along the top of it. _Warm_ , she notes. _Slick. Firm, though._

"No. Use your mouth," Samson demands in a growl. He has to fight back the urge to grab the back of her head and guide her into the proper place. "Play with your breasts while you suck my dick. And keep looking up at me, just like this." _Like I'm your god._

Andrea reaches down, then, running a finger along each nipple, but she has to lift up to her knees properly to get her mouth onto his dick. She doesn't dream of disobeying, only wonders how she will manage. _Nick was like this, and he opened his mouth real wide— I see why, it's so thick!— and just..._ Opening her mouth, she leans forward, trying to take in as much of him as she can. _I thought I had a regular sized mouth, but half of it's hanging out and my mouth is full. Maker, he must be longer than Jules. What will it feel like inside me? At least the taste of him is nice: salty, kind of like tears, but with a subtle tang to it that I think I like. So firm, like a carrot; I want to bite down, but I know I shouldn't. So now what? I... suck on it somehow? That sounds silly..._

Samson lets out a pleased rumble as she... as she... _The fuck is she doing? Cucking Maker, virgins are so much damn trouble._ "Use your tongue and lips," he says with as much patience as he can muster. "Don't bother trying to deep throat me, that'll come later."

_I suppose if it goes in and out of me, it can go in and out of my mouth?_ is about where her train of thought had gotten to before he interrupts. _Thank the Maker. Use my tongue..._ She lifts her tongue, probing gently at the head of his cock, then licking along the sensitive bottom edge. She pulls back a little, then pushes forward again, her head bobbing just a bit as she runs her lips along his cock. _Play with my tits_ , she remembers, and she goes back to cupping her breasts, pushing them up a little so they look better from that angle. _Maker, I must look ridiculous. He seems to be enjoying it, though._

_She has no idea what she's doing and that's almost enough to make up for itself. Stupid bitch, how do you not know even the basic idea of how to blow someone? Still..._ He hums softly, head tilting back to rest against the wall. "Swirl your tongue around the head, poke around with it. Like you poke around your teeth when you get some steak caught in there. But mix it with what you do when we kiss and sucking. Not like my dick's a straw or something, but just seal your lips around it and suck gently. Bob your head up and down the shaft with your lips tight." He runs the fingers of one hand through her hair a few times, almost petting her. "If you can get the tip near the back of your throat without gagging, humming is good too."

She does her best; before too much longer she starts to get the hang of it, using his grunts and groans as a rubric to what he likes and doesn't. Soon enough, she's in full sway, eyes a little unfocused as she works. _Is it hot out here or just me? Maker, my nipples are so sensitive, they're never this nice to play with. What was I doing? Right, he said something about my throat._ She leans forward, nearly startling herself when he hits the back of her throat. _Maker! There's still more of him! He must be the longest dick on the planet. How...?_

_The fuck?_ Jostled out of his bliss by her weird squawking noise, Samson opens his eyes to peer down at her. "Andrea?" he prompts her, frowning. When she doesn't look up at him, he grunts, then grabs her hair and tugs slightly. "Andrea!"

"Mmwha?" she slurs around his cock, blinking up at him. "'owwy," she adds, wincing a little.

_Andraste's ass, are you serious? A couple of cocktails and a single dose of Liquid E+ and you're—_ "You doing okay?" he asks carefully, studying her face. _I do not want her to puke or have a seizure or whatever the fuck._ Realizing she might not, he gently pulls her head back so she can actually talk without chewing on his dick.

"Yeah— yeah. I'm fine. I just, I'm just a little distracted." _Distracted during sex?_ "Your cock is... wow. Just wow."

"Right," he says slowly, a little concerned almost despite himself. "How about, uh, how about you just... wrap your lips around my dick, nice and tight, and try to keep up some low suction. I'll hold your head and set a pace." _Which is just about the nicest way I've ever proposed face-fucking someone but why not, yeah?_

She nods, moving to wrap her lips around him, closing her eyes. _My stomach feels.... strange. Warm and fluttery. But I don't really care._

Now in control of things, Samson is able to really get into it. It's not long before Samson finds himself bending forward as a groan forces itself out of his mouth. He ignores the way Andrea coughs and gasps as she's finally able to breath clearly, too busy wiping his cock off on her swimsuit. For a moment anyway, then he cloaks himself in 'good boyfriend' and kneels next to her. "Hey darling. That was great. No, seriously, for your first blowjob? Fucking A plus, word choice very deliberate." He rubs her back absently as he praises her, not minding the delay at all for now.

_Give her a minute or two, then I'll eat her out and finger her asshole some to make sure she's nice and ready to fuck. Give myself some time to recover, then I'm taking her second hole. Probably go there a couple of times before I do the backdoor. Kind of gay, but she's way better than the Freak. Even her face has grown on me. Still not pretty, but she's alright looking. And those tits and hips are fucking nice. Like black girl nice. Yeah, use her cunt a few times, take a nap, warm her back up, stretch her out some, then I'll butt fuck her face up so I can focus on her tits. Trifecta complete and I can just take want I want for the rest of our time. Hmm. Maybe do some spanking before the anal? And maybe some choking during? Yeah... yeah, that'll spice that up real nice_. "Need some water or something?" he remembers to ask.

"Water," she mumbles, coughing, or at least she thinks she does. Things start to get a little... blurry around that point. She is sure she drinks the water. She's not sure where it came from or how long it took for him to give it to her. She's not sure how she got across the deck into a chair, or when she agreed to let him go down on her, but she's aware when his finger breaches her ass. She squirms, trying to get away from the finger, trying to figure out how to make her mouth move to tell him no. It hurts, but it's somehow still pleasurable? She doesn't like it, the way every move sends silky ripples through the velvet curtain that used to be her stomach. She doesn't like how good it feels, how it makes her gasp in pleasure and pain both. But she can't figure out how to tell him no, leave off, and then she's coming again, twisting and shaking, feeling an after-image in the air as she moves.

_This isn't just drunk. Something's wrong with me. The last of that sinus infection must be messing with me, I must be feverish._ She tries to tell him we should stop, but somehow she's on the bed inside the cabin instead, and he's inside her, has been for some time. He thrusts and grunts, and she can barely catch her breath for how good it feels, how wonderful. Then he comes and she's left bereft, desperate for his touch as he pulls out of her and pulls away.

The next thing she truly remembers after that is a sharp pain, piercing her fog of pleasure and warmth. It screeches like a discordant note, jarring her out of her blissful slumber. It takes her a few moments to realize it's her ass that hurts, that there's hands on her tits and he's thrusting into her ass. She tries to tell him no, but it comes out a sloppy, slurred mumble. Then she's gone again, phasing out until she can't breathe, can't find the air she needs to sleep in her cocoon. She's not sure if she passes out from lack of air or just phases back into that safe, unreal space where nothing can hurt her, but she doesn't recall a thing after that. Not the sixth or seventh time he fucks her cunt, not the spanking, not even being posed for photos. Not a blessed thing.

* * *

Most of the weekend is spent at the Charger's place, with only a few quick trips to grab food and for Beth to get her things from her room. Carver spends much of his time curling up with Beth or being trained by Krem and Bull in basic conditioning. Well, basic as far as legitimate warrior training goes, which means it's on par with off-season Olympic training. Beth half-heartedly tries to participate on a reduced regimen but quickly stops even that much to instead cheer her twin on. And to ask Bull a million questions about himself, the Chargers, the Qun and the Antarctic trip. She at least keeps up with her yoga routine.

When Monday arrives, neither twin is even remotely interested in leaving their oasis of safety, but they find themselves on campus anyway. Skinner is with them again, not that either of them can tell, and both are carrying just-barely-legal-grade mace and rape whistles. Bull had wanted to give them tasers and military-grade mace but Arthur, who had arrived late Saturday night, had put his foot down. Still, their walk to homeroom goes well, with no confrontations or even lingering looks. The bell prompts the students to take their seats and the teacher takes roll without a hitch, causing the pair to start to relax, just a little. Morning announcements come next, the typical prattle and whatnot of campus life. Homecoming was a great success, please remember that curfew is nine pm on school nights, ten on Friday and Saturdays only, auditions for the winter play start next week, the rec room in Tanner House is closed for repairs, and other such updates.

"Student Carver Amell, report to the principal's office immediately. Student Carver Amell, report to the principal's office immediately." With a faint crackle of static, the intercom shuts off.

_Fuck_. Carver gets up, grabbing his bag and heading for the door; once in the hallway, he texts "principals office" to Arthur and starts walking slowly in the right direction. Still, he arrives before the lawyer catches up.

He's shown in immediately and finds himself facing Mother Peony and Principal Archibald. "Miss Amell, you are out of uniform." The Sister wastes no time in starting in on him, not even allowing him to finish sitting before she speaks.

Carver looks down at his uniform: pressed pants, shirt, tie, sweater. "I'm not!"

"During the Summer/Fall semester, all female students are to wear light skirts as provided by the school store. Furthermore, you should not be wearing a tie, as that is part of the male dress code."

"But I _am_ male!"

"Mi— Student Amell," Archibald says, raising a hand to stop the Sister from speaking. "I understand that things can be... confusing at your age. That you don't understand who you are. What your life is about. That's okay. Very, very few people have any idea of those things at your age. But that's why we're here, to guide you. To help you understand who and what you are."

"I know what I am. And what I am is an Amell," he says, his voice cold. "My lawyer will be here any second."

Both adults have to hide a wince, having already met Arthur on Sunday when he'd managed to kick over enough anthills to get the entire Board of Education called in. "This is not a legal matter," Mother Peony insists. "This is a matter of school policy, from which no student is exempt."

"And I'm _in_ uniform. Saying I'm not is, uh, libel or something. I'm sure he'll be able to sort this out."

"Slander," Archibald corrects him automatically. "Libel is writt— Regardless, that's aside from the point. The uniform you're wearing is the incorrect one, just as wearing a uniform from Three Virtues High School would be incorrect."

"That's only true if I'm a girl, and I'm not a girl, so it's not true. So it's slander. If you want to send me home that's fine. But I'm not wearing a skirt."

"Did the Maker create you in His image or Blessed Andraste's?" Peony demands. "Lie if you will to me, but know He will hear your answer and judge you for it."

Carver lifts his chin a little. "His image. But he put me in the wrong body by mistake."

"The Maker does not make mis-"

Arthur doesn't bother to knock before letting himself in. "Carver my boy, good to see you," he says, tucking a file under his left arm so he can offer his only hand to Carver for a shake.

Carver clasps Arthur's hand with both his own, nodding a little. "They said I'm out of uniform. As you can see, I'm not. Can we sue them?"

"Mmmh, very possible, very possible indeed," Arthur says thoughtfully. "What have they said so far?"

"Mister Pike," Archibald says, rising to his feet. "I— Why are you here?"

"My job of course."

"Just that I'm not in uniform," explains Carver. "And that I'm a girl. Which I'm not. Even legally."

Arthur nods a little. "And your version of things, Mister Archibald?"

"Miss Amell is—"

"Still practicing your ventriloquism I see," Arthur says brightly, his powerful, vibrant voice overwhelming the Mother's. "Very well done, you're even better than last night."

Flushing, the principal clears his throat. "Young Amell here has been exposed as having been hiding her gender since enrollment. As such, there are changes that must be made."

"I'm _not_ a _girl_!" Carver's voice raises in volume, but he keeps still, his hands clenching on empty air at his sides.

"Exposed?" Arthur asks mildly. "I would be rather curious as to what you mean by that."

"Witness testimony as to _her_ body," Mother Peony snaps. "Her private parts clearly prove that—"

Arthur steps forward, looming over the desk. "I beg your pardon," he demands. "Are you telling me that you've personally inspected my _underaged_ client's body?"

Carver smirks, crossing his arms. "He hasn't," he says, almost triumphant. "Nobody has but my doctor and some lying rapists, and my doctor says I'm a man."

"Rapists? Do you mean to say that you are acting solely on the testimony of _rapists_? People who have proven by their actions that they are without honor, decency or ethics? Who have already proven that they want to harm Carver?"

"Amell has already confirmed that the rape occurred, which does lend some credence to the rest of their claims," Archibald explains. "And Amell refused to allow medical staff to in— to perform an inspection."

"Men get raped," he counters, shivering a bit. "And I've already seen a healer. I don't want to be seen by your healer. They tried to force me," he adds, to Arthur.

Mother Peony scoffs. "They wouldn't have raped a man. He was very clear that he wouldn't have done such a thing during his questioning."

"Given the stigma against homosexuality among his peer group, would you expect him to say otherwise?" Arthur shakes his head. "Not that it matters, of course. Carver's legal status is that of a male. Birth certificate, medical records, citizen census, voter pre-registration, social security and so forth. All of it clearly states that Carver Amell is male."

"Meaning I don't have to wear a skirt."

"The laws of man are beneath the laws of the Maker," Mother Peony declares fervently.

Arthur smiles at the wince on the Principal's face. "Is that so? Because while this might be a Catholic sponsored school, it still has to follow our laws if it wishes to continue running. Simply put, Sister, Principal, you are attempting to order Carver to cross-dress."

"Which is a sin," adds Carver. "So I won't do it."

Arthur glances over at Carver, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. _Just as bad as his brother._ "Quite so. Now, giving that this is the second time that my client has found himself being harassed by the facility on this matter, I think perhaps it best that we prevent a third. While I could push this right to the courts now, I would be willing to accept an agreement that this topic not be brought up, in any fashion, with either Amell attending your school without me present. From the start, mind you."

"You dare to make demands of the Church?" Mother Peony demands.

"You're not the whole Church. Just one school," says Carver.

"Mother Peony, I must admit that I find myself somewhat confused; why are you present for this conversation?"

"Because she was the one who brought the entire case to our attention," the principal explains quickly. "One of the Sisters took the confession of—"

"Bernard!" Peony snaps. "That is not something to be spoken of."

"They told," whispers Carver, eyes wide. "Samson? Cullen?"

"That is none of your concern," Mother Peony says severely. "The issue at hand is that it would be highly immoral to allow..." She glares at Arthur, who has leaned in a little towards her, "to allow this Amell to continue to room with a male student, use male facilities or continue to play on the men's soccer team."

"Go to hell!" he shouts. "I'm not dropping off the soccer team just because you don't believe my birth certificate!"

The Mother's eyes gleam with satisfaction. "Oh dear me, such language. And to a Mother, right in front of the principal no less." She clucks her tongue.

"Given the provocation my client—"

Cutting Arthur off, Principal Archibald declares, "No, I'm afraid that's too far. Student policy is very clear on the matter. Using blasphemous language on campus is grounds for disciplinary action. As it was directed to one of the Chantry facility, it's automatically a suspension worthy offensive."

"Fine. I'm suspended. I'll get off the property then," he snaps, turning to go. _This is bullshit, this is utter bullshit!_

"You were not dismissed, Miss Amell!"

"Mother Peony, that is also too far!" Arthur declares. "You have no grounds for that address and continuing to use it after being warned is harassment!"

"She is—"

The principal grabs Peony's arm, startling her into shutting up. "Amell, you have two days suspension, today and tomorrow. As the... other matter is still under contention, we will maintain the status quo in regards to your status."

"Bernard, you can't be serious!"

He glares at Peony. "I am. Until you have legal proof, there can be no official rulings or disciplinary actions. Is that understood?" Looking pissed, the Sister nods curtly. "Amell? Is that understood?"

"Yessir," he mutters, clearly still pissed but just as clearly trying to be polite and composed anyway.

"Do you have any questions on the matter?" the principal presses.

"No, sir," he lies.

"To be very clear, if there's any more harassment from this school, I _will_ start legal action. Lawsuits, restraining orders, the works," Arthur says coldly.

Bernard winces a little, then clears his throat. "Of course, of course. I'm sure we can keep this out of the courts." _The last thing we need after last year's budget cuts is getting into a legal entanglement with the Amell family_. "If that's all, Carver, you're free to go. Remember, during your suspension, you're only allowed to be in your dorm, the library and the cafeteria."

"I live off campus now," he says, dully. "I'll be there."

"Ah, yes, I do recall seeing that you'd filed for off-campus accommodations," he replies after a moment's thought. "And your sister just submitted the same." He hesitates, then nods. "I'll expedite both requests." When Mother Peony starts to voice an objection, he adds, "best for all involved, as it neatly side-steps any issue with, ah, dorm and bathroom problem. You can go now, Amell."

* * *

The message, when it comes, doesn't come in private; instead, it comes to the new four-person chat Beth and Carver had decided to open up over the weekend, one of the first messages to it:

**Sibs Chat**  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : going home. Suspended. 2 days.  
 **OG_Iceman_Cumeth** : Wat? y?!  
 **Stoleyourgirlfriend95** : why?  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : Bullshit. Why else?  
 **B😎stB😉th** : the fuck?! was Arthur there? who're you with?  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : Arthur was there. They suspended me for cussing.  
 **Stoleyourgirlfriend95** : why were you cursing?  
 **OG_Iceman_Cumeth** : So glad we went to public school  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : they tried to make me wear a skirt  
 **B😎stB😉th** : >:( >:( >:( >:( >:(  
 **B😎stB😉th** : that's super bs. why shouldn't you cuss over that?  
 **OG_Iceman_Cumeth** : Kinky  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : stfu garrett  
 **B😎stB😉th** : hey that's not funny!  
 **B😎stB😉th** : srsly, don't joke about that  
 **B😎stB😉th** : what else did they say?  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : I tihnk Arthur scared them off  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : thye kept saying girl  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : wanna go punch things now  
 **B😎stB😉th** : can't blame you  
 **B😎stB😉th** : me too  
 **B😎stB😉th** : I'll call during lunch, 'kay?  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : Sure.  
 **Stoleyourgirlfriend95** : Hey, chin up, bro. You'll be fine  
 **OG_Iceman_Cumeth** : Yah, Arthur's real good in a crisis  
 **Stoleyourgirlfriend95** : And Bull, don't forget Bull  
 **B😎stB😉th** : Kind of hard to forget! ;)  
 **B😎stB😉th** : You need anything?  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : vodka cranberry?  
 **B😎stB😉th** : Carver!  
 **B😎stB😉th** : cranberry is gross  
 **B😎stB😉th** : I'll bring raspberry :P


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumors have been flying about the school about what's going on with Carver Amell. Meanwhile, the school play auditions are right around the corner, meaning Beth's been spending more time with the theater kids and less with the cheerleaders. Can both twins keep their social standing intact?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: violence, gossip, misgendering
> 
> Sorry this was late, but I just got a new dog over the weekend and plum forgot everything else. She's a sweetie :D

With auditions right around the corner, everyone in either the drama club or any of the theatre classes heads for the theatre building every spare moment they have. While not exactly a fine arts school, the auditorium slash stage is more set up for assemblies and concerts than plays. But, given that Mother Terasis du Lion Academy is a prestigious private school with a great many wealthy alumni, their underfunded programs are still far better off than most public schools prized programs. Which means there's plenty of room for everyone to have places to eat lunch without stepping on each other's toes. Today is even more crowded than previously, as the sacred signup sheet is finally going to be posted starting at noon.

It's not like there's much competition for the signups for stage crew, really. Still, it's the first time in three year's worth of plays that Beth's been late to lunch the day they're posted. And, strangely, she walks right past the list— and Teddy— before doubling back at her friend's cough.

"Something up?" Teddy asks, aloud— the first words they've spoken aloud today, but they'll be damned if they're not going to practice some while Beth's here.

Beth blinks, then grins at Teddy. "Sorry, just— distracted. Carver," she adds in a low voice. "He—" She breaks off, biting her lip

Teddy blinks, then hands Beth the pen, stepping aside so she can sign up. _We'll eat somewhere private in case she needs to cry._

Beth shakes her head, not in denial but to clear it for a moment so she can focus. _Right. Sign-ups. Ummm._ "Let's see..." _Stagehand, script editor— ugh, I wish we were allowed to do more than just update some of the language and edit out 'unsuitable elements' but noooo— and I might as well toss a hat into understudy. The more well rounded the better, right?_ "And done. Thanks."

Teddy nods, grabbing her wrist and tugging her off to Teddy's favorite spot: the lighting booth. Once inside, Teddy locks the door, turns on Beth, and demands, "Spill."

_Woah, why are we—_ Beth winces a little at their demand. _Ummm. Crap. What do I say?_ "I— well, I— Ugh. Sorry. I can't think in a straight line today for nothing." She worries at her lip, studying Teddy for a long moment.

Teddy studies Beth for a moment, then opens their arms, offering a hug.

"Stone cracks yes," Beth says weakly, stepping in to hug Teddy tightly. She trembles for a moment, then goes lax against Teddy. _This is really nice. That hint of heat, of awareness of their body in that way doesn't diminish the comfort at all._ "Thank you," she whispers.

Teddy pets Beth's hair, nodding against her. _Of course._

Taking a slow breath, Beth shifts them over to the bench on the far wall without actually breaking off the hug. Once seated, she leans against Teddy and sighs. "Carver got suspended," she finally says in a low voice. "Two days."

"Oh no, for what?" Teddy replies, frowning.

"Cussing out a teacher," Beth says with a faint smile. "I looked up the rules; for that length and such, he either gave a teacher a whole bucket of invective or cursed himself some blasphemy in front of a Sister or Templar."

"I bet blasphemy," says Teddy, grinning. "Andraste's bouncy titties."

Beth snorts, shaking her head. "Brat." She pauses, then adds, "I was always more interested in her booty. Could you imagine booty miracle enough to catch a god's eye? Dammmmn."

"Mmmm," says Teddy, instead.

Beth smirks, all too willing to be distracted. "What about you? You a tits lover? Booty? Legs?"

"Tits." Teddy nods, then adds, in a dreamy voice, "girls."

"Yeah," Beth agrees in the same tone. "And girl shaped friends," she adds.

Teddy blushes. "I might be a girl." They shrug.

"Girl shaped either way," Beth points out, then leers. "And with easily one of the top five booties in the entire school I might add."

Teddy blushes, but says only, "White girls," in a dismissive tone.

"Hey, I do alright for a white girl," Beth says, pouting. _Short as I am, I need the best tits and ass I can get to make up for my tiny legs._

"Truth," agrees Teddy.

"Damn right it is." Smirking, Beth shifts around so she's half in Teddy's lap. She pauses, glancing at the door to double check it's locked, then smiles back up at Teddy. "Wanna double check though?"

Teddy grins, lowering a hand to rub Beth's ass gently. "Yup."

* * *

The world of Mother Terasis goes on without Carver. As he works his butt off getting real, honest-to-Maker Warrior training from everyone's favorite heretic, rumors spread throughout the campus: the kind of salacious rumor that seems to originate everywhere at once.

The next day at lunch, Neria corners Zevran and Owain in the drama room, scowling over her sash of save-the-whatever buttons. "You two hang out with Amell sometimes, right? Beth's twin?"

"On occasion this year, though he is... not the most reliable when it comes to meeting up." Zevran shrugs languidly as Owain simply nods twice without pausing in his consumption. "Then again, given various hardships, I cannot entirely blame him for this."

"Is it true he's a girl?"

"Nope."

"Carver is male."

"Really? Because _I_ heard they're identical twins and he wanted to play soccer in the men's team so he enrolled as a boy just to get into the harder league. A real hero story. Like that movie about the dog."

"Carver is not a dog," Owain says, frowning slightly. "Nor female."

"Well, if you say so," she replies, dubiously. "Too bad, then."

"Too bad? I had not realized you were so invested in having some sort of folk champion," Zevran comments, eyes narrowing a bit. "Where is all this coming from, exactly?"

"Well I heard it from Andrea, but her source wasn't Beth I don't think, or she'd have been more sure. So it has to be the soccer team. They'd know, they share a locker room don't they?"

"I do not see why they would," Zevran replies. "At least anymore than anyone that has spoken with him."

"Why is this important?" Owain asks as he neatly cuts his pizza into bites.

"What do you mean, why is it important?"

"Please denote which word you require explained or defined," Owain requests.

"Of course it's important! I need to know if there's a feminist folk hero that needs championing! I heard they're trying to kick her off the team, I could make buttons and wage a campaign to save her spot."

"Carver is male," Owain says patiently. "Using incorrect pronoun usage or descriptive words is offensive."

"You really haven't heard _any_ of this?"

"I have learned that listening to speculation yields inaccurate information to a far greater percentage than factual information."

Zevran swallows, then clarifies, "translation, Owain detests gossip. He has a point though. The only one that can answer this is Carver himself, anyone else is just guessing."

"You have her number?"

"You don't have Beth's number?" Zevran asks with wide, puzzled eyes. "I had thought you friends."

"Carver's. Dumbass."

"Then why did you ask for Beth's? She's the only female we've discussed so..."

"Whatever, you knew what I meant. His number."

Zevran raises an eyebrow. "Then you would not object to me referring to you as human?"

"You know I'm not. You can't always tell what someone has in their pants by looking like you can look at my ears."

"Ah!" Zevran briefly considers making a joke about 'establishing a pantsless society' or some such to rectify that but decides against it. "So you assume everyone is female unless you've seen their penis? An interesting methodology."

"Look, if you won't help I'll ask Beth," she declares. "All I'm trying to do is confirm the rumor."

"Why? Carver clearly does not wish for people to consider him female, regardless of the truthfulness of the rumor."

"How do you know that? Maybe she's secretly been wishing she could tell everyone so she could be referred to as female this whole time."

Zevran purses his lips for a moment. "Possible," he allows dubiously, taking out his phone and fiddling with it. "But unsupported by any evidence."

**AstonishingFanciable** : heads up & question.  
 **AstonishingFanciable** : rumors going around u r female (1 version is faking to get on men's soccer team b/c better team)  
 **AstonishingFanciable** : do u want me&Owain to confirm maleness?  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : fuck that  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : I am a man!!!!!  
 **MyNameIsCarver** : i hate this school  
 **AstonishingFanciable** : confirm maleness, copy  
 **AstonishingFanciable** : sorry to bug u, figured you'd want 2 know

"And he's a man. Also he hates the school and sounds really hurt and pissed about the entire thing," Zevran remarks as he puts his phone away.

Neria pouts, looking faintly disappointed. "Ah well, then. I guess it was all nothing."

"Not entirely nothing," Zevran disagrees. "It's a painful experience for Carver."

Owain finishes his lunch and carefully wipes his mouth. "It is poorly done of the student body to share speculation of this nature."

"I'll ask Andrea where she got her information. Maybe we can trace this back to the source."

"Andrea?" Zevran asks, frowning, considering Neria's source properly this time. "I had not realized her for a gossip."

"She wanted my help to help Carver keep her— his spot on the team."

"Hmmm. Perhaps we should attempt to locate the good Samiritain then," Zevran says brightly, rising to his feet.

"Samaritan," Owain corrects his friend. "Also, there are only four minutes remaining to our lunch break. That seems insufficient for this purpose. I propose we attempt to investigate the source of the incorrect rumors at a later time."

"Agreed," says Neria.

* * *

When Beth arrives at cheer practice— a few minutes early, which is late by the team's normal standards, as they all arrive early to gossip— she is greeted with an unusual sight: Vivienne, the JV cheer captain, is talking with Florianne, Beth's rival. Sure, there's Bella and Natalie also chatting while Vierre warms up nearby, but those two can't be a good sign for Beth. A year behind Beth, Vivienne is already making strides towards taking the crown from Cyndi when the older female graduates. Despite three generations in Spain and then the UP, Vivienne's Egyptian heritage shows clearly in her dark skin and neatly shaved head. She's clad in a silk version of the cheer uniform; like all the Circle students, her garments are made exclusively from the magic-dampening fabric, at her expense. Unlike most of them, she also wears a symbolic collar showing her dedication to avoiding using her powers for evil: a twist of hemp rope around a metal core, unable to be removed except with wire cutters. At the bottom of the cord, just between her perky breasts, is a metal ring, and from that dangles a sunburst charm made of a blue metal that also helps to inhibit magical leakage. It's not as effective as a proper Lyrice collar, but of course, perfect student Vivienne would never be seen in something that implies she can't control herself. Dedicated, she is; out of control, she is not.

Vivienne is signing a piece of paper against a notebook while Florienne holds it for her, providing stability for the pen to push against. Whatever they're talking about, when Belle spies Beth approaching, everyone shuts up quickly.

_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. That's never a good sign! Fucking wonderful. Did they hear about Carver's suspension already? Or is this just more old stuff come again? None of my gossip site alerts pinged me so I doubt it's anything from home. Okay, just act normal, act upbeat and whatever the fuck. Think about normal, happy things. Got a 'B' on my history test. No math homework. Tex-Mex in the caf tonight. Teddy's ass is amazing and their lips taste so— uh, maybe not horny happy things. Uh. Sunstone updates tomorrow night. Wait, no, that's horny too. Mmmh, Teddy in ropes... Dammit! Pink elephants. Lesbian ones. Ummm. Cats are cute. Especially kittens. Especially especially when they try to climb things and get all confuzzled when gravity happens._

"Hey all," Beth says almost absently, her attempts at distracting herself with a flood of random thoughts working surprisingly well. "Oh right, before I forget: Vierre? You left your math notebook in the student gov room day before last, if you're still looking for it. Neria found it and put it on the Shelf of Lost Things."

"Oh! Uh, thanks," he says, looking away with a slightly guilty expression.

"Beth!" coos Vivienne, in her best false charm way. "Come sign this petition of dear Florienne's. It's about your... sibling."

"Oh, she doesn't need to be reminded, I'm sure," says Florianne instantly, whisking away the sheet.

"Nonsense! I'm certain she feels the same as we do," replies Vivienne, smugly. "After all, she's a firm believer in the Maker and His laws, isn't she?"

_And all my good vibes gone. Great. Bitches suck_. "Sure," Beth says flippantly. "But it looks like poor Flo is too embarrassed about whatever little," she hums softly, making it care she's picking the word with deliberate care, "entertainment she's whipped up to share. So no worries, really."

"It's quite a serious matter," says Belle, glancing at Florianne. Flo takes the opening gratefully.

"Oh yes. After all, they're talking of putting Carver in the women's restroom, which absolutely won't do. So I've begun a petition to let the staff know how the student body truly feel."

_Wat. No. No, no, I can use this. I can— yeah. Okay._ "Oh! I see, that does make sense, yes! It would be absolutely inappropriate for a man to use the women's restroom, I agree. I mean, he's my brother so I have no concerns whatsoever that he would ever do anything untoward, but it's a terrible precedent to set. And, of course, not everyone knows him as I do, so it makes sense that others would be uncomfortable with the idea."

Natalie rolls her eyes discretely, wishing she'd has the nerve to invite herself over to where Cyndi and Shannon are having a private conversation, on the other side of the gym. _Intruding on that would be way better than having to deal with this_. "I heard..." Vierre begins, trailing off in a clumsy and obvious fishing attempt.

"So you'll sign?" asks Florianne, brandishing the petition. "We've all signed already."

"Mmmh," Beth says noncommittally as she plucks the petition out of Florianne's grasp with surprising skill; one of the unsung virtues of having three siblings growing up. "Never sign what you haven't studied," she half sing-songs absently, already reading it over. It's not long or all that detailed; it's certainly not a formal petition, by either legal or school standards. It's only three pages and two of those are blank. Well, they were blank originally anyway, as one of them is almost filled with signatures already. Names Beth recognizes, names belonging to people she considers friends. Which...

_What the hell? What is this shit? I can't believe that they wrote this. I can't believe this bitch actually_

-don't believe sexual deviants should be encouraged-

_thought this up and then spread it around. Maker damn her thrice over. This is the last thing that Carver needs right now. Fuck. I need to tell him. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. How am I going to tell him_

-beg of you to consider our safety and virtue-

_that there's more? That this absolute bitch decided that she was going to stick her gold-digging skank oar into the stream of shit our family has been dealing with. Twice now! Oh. Oh shit. I need to call Varric tonight too._

-to allow predators-

_Why now though? What's gotten her moving so hard and so often? And why me?_

"Well, this is... interesting," Beth murmurs, absurdly glad she'd put on matching silk panties, bra and leggings this morning for Teddy's benefit. She's settled into a breathing exercise out of ingrained habit, but she's not entirely sure she'd have been able to leave the paper unsinged without that silk suppressing her powers. "You rather undersold the issue in your description, Flo-Flo."

"Well, what do you expect? We can hardly expect someone like _that_ to be in the _women's_ restroom. That wouldn't be proper." She shrugs. "I just... embellished it a little, put it a little strongly."

Vivienne offers Beth the pen.

Beth smiles brightly, then rips the papers in half. Then continues tearing. "I will not allow slander and lies about my family to go uncontested, nor will I support your blasphemy," she explains, voice prime and almost kind. She can't quite keep the venom out of her voice entirely, but it's at least masked. "You should be ashamed of yourself, Florianne de Chalons."

"So Carver fucks men then?" asks Florienne, sweetly. "That's not what he led me to believe freshman year."

"Carver is underage, Florianne," Beth counters sweetly. "And neither married nor even engaged. He's not having sex with anyone of course." _Shank bitch asshat scat gurgling malicious fuckwad. Die alone and reviled by all those you once admired or envied. Preferably with a rusty pipe rammed up your ass._

"And you support his being in the ladies' locker room?" Florianne presses. "Do tell us your position, Bethany darling." _Especially as I spy Marassi walking this way._

"Have you any reports of anything untoward occurring with him being in the men's locker room?" Beth counters, then frowns. "Wait. 'His being in the ladies' locker room?' Seriously? Of course I do! Carver is my brother, he should be using the men's locker room. You know, like he has for two years now? Nothing has happened and nothing should _continue_ to happen."

"What's this about?" Shannon asks, voice bright and upbeat, just like she's been since Homecoming. Which has confused more than a few gossipers, the handful in the know about how Shannon's date spent his night at least. Or rather, who he ended up spending it with.

"Beth was just telling us why she ripped up Flo's petition to keep Carver out of the ladies' locker room," says Belle, in a snide tone.

Beth makes an indignant noise, hands balling into fists. "La, that sounds like there's a lot behind it!" Shannon exclaims before the youngest Amell can remember how English works. "Why on earth is there a petition about that in the first place?"

"The staff were talking of forcing him into our spaces," says Florianne, picking up the pieces of her petition from the ground where Beth's dropped them. "Obviously that's not safe for anyone involved."

Beth's eyes narrow as she fixates on what Florianne just implied. "The staff were talking you say? About personal, legal matters that are still ongoing? How absolutely _fascinating_ that you're aware of such matters! And long enough to have made this petition and gotten people to sign it even! That's so interesting I think I'm going to text my dad's lawyer to share it," she says, the false cheer in her voice turned brittle as she whips out her phone.

"Maker, Beth, be less of a bitch?" says Natalie. "We're just worried about being perved on."

Beth snaps her head around to glare at Natalie. "No-one is perving on you! You're just being transphobic! Carver isn't going into the girl's locker room, the girl's bathroom, the girl's dorms or anywhere to perv on people! You—" Eyes a little wide, Shannon reaches over to grip Beth's shoulder tightly, cutting her off.

"Hey now," she says gently. "Deep breath Beth. Deep breath. Then start at the beginning, I'm getting real lost about what's got you jumped right to murderous?" _Wow, she feels hot. Like feverish hot. Is she sick? That would explain why she's so on edge, I know Cyndi gets downright venomous when she's feeling poorly._

Gulping down a few lungfuls of air, Beth sends a silent prayer of thanks for Shannon's arrival. _She's right, I need to get my head together. I'm making good points, but they're all over the place. I think they're good anyway. Ugh._ She shakes her head to clear it, not really noticing Shannon silencing Florianne and Vierre both when they try to speak up. "Sorry," she finally manages, though she definitely directs it towards the group sans Florianne. "The school admins are trying to reclassify Carver as female, even though he's medically, legally and just plain factually a guy. My brother. So this," she gestures at the scraps of paper, "is worse than pointless, it's salt in the wound. Carver isn't going into our locker room. He doesn't want to use our locker room. If you're worried about guys being forced to use our rooms, then I'll make up a petition about supporting Carver's fight with the school."

"Wait, wait, okay, hang on," says Vierre, switching legs. "Is he a guy or a girl? Like, does he have a dick or not?"

"Medically, legally and factually a guy," Beth repeats with a huff. "I'm his damn twin, I think I'm a pretty reputable source here folks!"

"Then why are they trying to make him enroll as a girl? Is he gay?" presses Vierre.

"Because they're assholes," Beth mutters darkly to herself in Elven. Switching back to English, she pulls out a long ago agreed upon but never before used cover story. "Carver is male, he just—" She gives Vierre a hard look. "Look, I'm not going to tell you every little detail, this is kinda super personal after all. I mean, I doubt you'd want your brother or sister or whatever gossiping about your medical deets, yeah? But the short of it is that he had a birth defect that's got to be corrected with surgery that he can't get until he's finished growing. The school is trying to fuck with us because of political nonsense— my dad, also none of your business— so they're blowing this out of proportion to put the heat on us."

Natalie whispers something in Belle's ear and both girls giggle; Florianne gives them a salacious look, as if to say, 'I know what you're thinking and I guessed it too'.

But Vierre seems shocked. "What, over a birth defect? That's crazy! What next, they going to go around measuring everyone's junk just to be sure?"

Beth just shrugs helplessly, unable to keep the grimace off her face at the sudden realization of what should have been obvious. _Wow, really should have put new thought into that old cover story. Like, thought that includes what teenagers would take from it. Shit. Whatever; Carver won't be thrilled at being teased about being small dicked but probably less than he would about being called a girl. Probably?_

"Oh my," Shannon murmurs, her thoughts flying to her own brother. The brother nearly all the school is unaware of, the brother few in the world know exists. The little brother she adores, who is homeschooled and introverted, who loves baking and pottery and needs constant care and a rigid schedule to feel comfortable. _I doubt she's referring to anything as severe as Tristan's condition— Carver couldn't attend school if it was— but still, that hits home rather sharply._ "Well then! It rather sounds like poor Florianne was mislead by whoever in the staff spilled this bit of slander, mmh? I'm so glad Beth was able to head this all off, though..." Shannon hums softly, then nods. "Beth, why don't you go have a bit of a rest in my office? I mean Sister Dani's office. No! No, really Beth, you feel far too warm, I'm worried you've a fever. There's been a slew of strep throat and ear infections of late for some reason and I don't want you pushing yourself sick."

About to protest, Beth has to stop in order to swallow back a rush of terror. _Warm. Too warm. My magic. I'm so furious and worn down that I'm losing it. Oh Maker. Oh Maker. I need— yes, I need to—_ "G-Good plan," she manages weakly.

Vivenne studies Beth for a moment before declaring, "I will walk her. Then it is time and past that practice began."

"I, uh, I think I might beg off today entirely," Beth decides after a few seconds. "Head back to my dorm and crash. Door Dash some Zoup, maybe make some headway on rereading Othello for the test this Thursday. Ugh. Rambling. Anyway." She runs a hand through her hair and sighs. "Sorry I went off everyone."

"Then, be well," says Vivienne, but Beth doesn't like the appraising look in her eye, or the way her gaze lingers as Beth turns to go.

* * *

B 8) stB ;) th: hey, how's ur meeting going?  
B 8) stB ;) th: don't reply if u're busy!  
B 8) stB ;) th: not super import  
B 8) stB ;) th: well  
B 8) stB ;) th: maybe. but not urgent at all  
MyNameIsCarver: done  
MyNameIsCarver: just waiting 4 Krem  
MyNameIsCarver: got done early, doing homework  
B 8) stB ;) th: oh  
B 8) stB ;) th: huh  
B 8) stB ;) th: well... mind dropping by ~MB's~ new solo-dorm?  
B 8) stB ;) th: we need muscles  
MyNameIsCarver: yah sure  
MyNameIsCarver: brt

Carver tucks his phone away, heading for the girl's dorm back door; he knows better than to go in the front door, as they'll have a guard, but the back door has to be opened from the inside to let him in, which is how all the girls smuggle in boyfriends or brothers when they want company. He's not the only one with that idea today, however. When he sees a familiar back, a head of blond hair, he stops dead in his tracks, his heart leaping into his throat.

_Steve._

The boy seems to be trying to pick the lock on the back door, too impatient to wait for someone to come out this way or text whoever he's trying to see. Doubtful it's for a date, for a lot of reasons, but most obviously because he looks a mess. Shirt is wrinkled, hair is ungelled and even from this distance the reek of smoke is plain. Carver almost turns and leaves, much to his later chagrin. _He hasn't seen me yet. But... what's he doing here? Beth's in there._

"Hey," he calls, scowling as best he can despite his terror.

Steve doesn't even look over his shoulder at the shout, just shifts a little so when he half draws the unadorned but very real sword he's wearing on his hip, it's very visible.

"Fuck off or I'll fuck you in fucking half."

Carver slowly, cautiously, squats, drawing the knife he's smuggled in his boot. _Better than nothing. He can pick locks, I can't let him get to Beth with that thing._

"Fine, I'm going," he says, taking a step or two back— just enough to see Steve let his guard down. Then he charges, quick as you please, leaping onto Steve's back and trying to bear him to the ground before he can draw his sword.

It doesn't work.

Not entirely, not enough. Whether he'd recognized Carver's voice after hearing it for longer, heard and reacted to the run-up or just acted on instinct, the novice Templar steps to the side at the last second in a rapid pivot. He doesn't get far enough to get free and clear, and Carver's new training allows him to change his attack so instead of tackling him down, he shoulder checks him into the door with a dull crash. Carver's knife is jarred from his hand, but that just keeps it even, as his rush had succeeded in keeping Steve from arming himself.

"Fucking bitch," Steve screams wildly, clawing at Carver as his rage outstrips his training briefly. This close, Carver realizes the smoke scent is from pot, not tobacco. Though neither would explain why Steve's eyes are bloodshot, unequally dilated and a sickly blue color. What else is he on? "Rip your fuck damn throat in!"

"Stay away from my _sister_ you pussy-ass _bitch_ ," snarls Carver, slamming Steve's head into the closed door before he lets up, backing away.

"Fu— Fuck you both dead, you—" Steve shakes his head like a dog— a drunk, rabid dog— and stares at Carver for a second, hand resting on the sword hilt. "...you," he breathes out in an almost delighted wonder.

Carver pauses, his gut churning with terror, all his instincts telling him to run away— all but his love and loyalty to his twin. "Me," he snarls. "Fuck off and die, asshole."

"Fuck off?" Steve giggles, one hand coming up to wipe at his nose. "Don't know an 'off.' Gonna fuck you though. And your sister, and her dyke friend. Make a nice little buffet outta ya."

_No no no no no no no no no._ With a wordless scream of rage, Carver attacks again, aiming with a fist right for Steve's face.

Steve grins broadly, weight shifting in an instant to an unarmed combat stance. A smug, self-assured look on his face, he casually reaches out to parry Carver's punch with his forearm, then step in for a gut punch. _Wind her, beat her face in, then tear her ass apa—_ Pain explodes in his face along with a crunching noise. His head snaps back and blood droplets scatter across the glass door behind them. His body continues to move on autopilot, fist sinking deep into Carver's side. He lags there, thoughts stuck on trying to figure out how Carver had gotten past his block.

The next thing he hears is a slight scraping noise as Carver draws Steve's sword. _Woah... heavier than I pictured,_ Carver thinks, taking a step back and lifting it. "Back off. Last warning."

Steve spits a wad of blood on the ground as he glares daggers at Carver. "Pluss, 'ike a ussy 'ike you coud..." His mouth twists and he spits again, this time sending a few shards of enamel to the dirt along with more blood. "Gunna kill oo," he whispers, staring at the blood for a few seconds. When he lifts his gaze to Carver's, it's to show eldritch blue eyes filled with madness. He gropes for his sword, then snarls when he realizes that it's what Carver is holding. Moving swiftly, he drops to one knee only to pop up nearly instantly with Carver's knife. "Fah-ine. 'oo want my sssord, I'll stab 'oo wiss it."

The next few seconds are a jumble Carver couldn't reconstruct if pressed in a court of law— which is a mercy, as it turns out. He'd love to insist that he ducked Steve's attack entirely, but the cut along his jawline would make the liar of him. He'd be thrilled to say he executed a flawless rebuttal, but in actual fact, what he executed was more like an off-balance heave. Still, judging by the screaming, the blood, it's a lucky swing. Later, he'll reconstruct that Steve must have fallen back on his sword-and-board training— training that assumes him to have a polycarbonate Templar-issued training shield on his off hand. Instead, the sword, sharpened to a keen edge, slices clean through the bones of his fingers, severing the last couple of joints on three fingers in a surprisingly smooth, clean cut.

In the ragged silence between Steve's terrified, pain-filled screams, Carver is jarred by a decidedly out of place sound;

"-gonna hear me roar. 'cause I'm the champion, and you're gonna hear me roar. 'cause I'm the champion, and you're gonna hear me roar. 'cause I'm—"

How does Beth keep changing her ringtone to that damn song? And could she at least find a clip that's more than just three seconds of the chorus?

Carver stabs the sword into the dirt so he can grab his phone, answering it quickly. "Beth, call security, there's someone trying to break into the dorm."

"Yep, totally changed your ri— bawuh?" There's a loud thud-thump, then, "'bells, call security? Carver, you did say that, right? You're really hard to understand; are you okay? Wait, is that screaming?"

"Look, I gotta go, Steve's trying to get into the dorm. Lock your door and call security." Carver keeps both eyes on the screaming boy, as if waiting for him to get over it and retaliate.

"Carver, what's— wait, Steve? Is that who's— Maribell, it's— just call security, I'll keep— Carver, what do you mean Steve is trying what?"

"He's bleeding a lot. I think— I think I cut off his— I'm going to be ill," he mumbles, staring at the blood on the ground, the severed fingers. "I gotta go, Beth." He flips the phone to speaker mode and stuffs it into his pocket, then moves to take off his belt. "Steve. I gotta— let me bind the wound before you bleed out."

At the sound of Carver's approach, Steve's shrill screams cut off and the young man lunges at him. Or attempts to at least, given his prone position and current condition, it's more pathetic than anything else. Still, he is doing his best to bite Carver, his remaining hand being busy clutching the stumps of his fingers. It's very clear that, no, Steve will not be cooperating with Carver's attempt to save his damn life. And then to make things even more fun, the door to the dorm suddenly opens to reveal a group of four girls. Carver doesn't recognize any of them; they look like little kids with their round faces and wide eyes, so they're probably freshman, so it makes sense he doesn't know them. Not that he knows a lot of the girls on campus really.

Not that he cares who they are. Not really. It's far more significant that they're screaming, shrieking and generally panicking at seeing the scene laid out before them. It's far more significant that he can hear his sister shouting his name from further inside the building. At least that means he won't have to deal with the screaming quartet himself.


End file.
